“Pray, keep quiet!” said Trimbush, in a reproving tone, as I galloped to his side, and laid hold of one of his ears, by way of an invitation to a romp. “Pray, keep quiet!” repeated he; “you can’t be too steady in going to cover. Nurse your strength,” he continued, “until it’s wanted.” “I could race for thirty miles this morning, without a check!” replied I, boastfully. “Pooh, pooh!” rejoined Trimbush; “that’s the way with you young-uns--all brag and self-conceit; and when it comes to hard running, where are ye in a brace of shakes? Somewhat in this form,” continued he, hanging down his head, with outstretched tongue and drooping stern. I laughed heartily at Trimbush’s acting a fagged and beaten hound; and, although I had not seen one at the time, I subsequently learned that it was a very faithful representation. “One would think, from that puppy’s gambolsome larking,” observed the huntsman, pointing to me, “that he knows what he’s going about.” “Perhaps he do,” sagely returned Tom Holt. “How the devil should he?” rejoined Will Sykes. “Isn’t this his first day’s cub-hunting?” “Yes,” added the first whip. “But don’t you think them dumb animals have a language of their own? I’m blest if they don’t almost talk to us sometimes.” “Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Will Sykes. “You’re a pretty kind of a Christian, Tom. I suppose, by-an’-bye, you’ll say they sing hymns.” “I don’t see why they shouldn’t,” replied the imperturbable Tom Holt. “At least,” continued he, “if they don’t, they’re a sight more sensible than many of those that do.” “Come, come,” said the huntsman, in a correcting tone; “try back, Tom. We shall have stones fall from the clouds presently, if you go on in that way.” “It wouldn’t surprise me if they did,” replied the whipper-in, as cool as a cucumber. “When so many folk, both gentle an’ simple, are building castles in the air, it’s nothing but reasonable that some o’ the stones should tumble.” “Ca-a-pital!” added Will Sykes admiringly. “I like a sharp and ready tongue. But you don’t really mean to say, Tom, that you think hounds have a way of speaking to one another?” “Yes, I do,” replied the whipper-in; “and have no doubt of the fact. They have the sense,” continued he, “to understand what we say _to_ them, and a great deal, in my opinion, of what we say _of_ them; and it’s quite as natural, if not more so, that they should have a language of their own, as it is for them to comprehend a foreign one.” “Your notions are queer ones, Tom,” observed the huntsman. “And you’d have me believe, I suppose, that Ringwood there has been _told_ what he’s going to do?” “Nothing more likely,” replied Tom Holt. We were now on the verge of Wiverton Gorse--an extensive brake of some forty acres of high but not thick furze, except in patches where it had been lately cut. “Don’t let a hound get away,” said the huntsman. “We’ll rattle the covers well; but be sure and hold the hounds in.”