At this moment Bluecap and Dauntless made an attempt to sneak away; and, before getting a rate from Ned Adams, found his double thong cracking round their loins. “That’s for not waiting orders,” observed Trimbush. “Cover-hoik! cover-hoik!” hallooed the huntsman; “Elooin-hoik!” and into the brake we crashed like a flash of lightning. “That’s the dash of the old blood!” said the huntsman, as I rushed through the gorse with the ambitious eagerness to find. “I’d bet a season’s capping,” continued he, “that he takes as kindly to work as a baby does to sucking.” “You’d better keep by me,” observed Trimbush, “and learn a little of your business, instead of tearing your eyes out in that blundering, stupid manner. One would think, if you were not a greenhorn of a puppy, that a dying fox stood before ye, instead of not having so much as found one.” But I was in no humour to be dictated to; and in spite of lacerating the corners of my eyes, ears and stern, I flew right and left through the furze, in the hope of being the first to challenge. In pressing through a thick patch, I scented that which I instantly concluded must be a fox; and, immediately afterwards catching a glimpse of something spring across a ride, I threw up my head, and made the cover echo as I dashed along the line. I was much surprised, however, that none of the old hounds joined me, and that, with the exception of three or four of the same age as myself, who merely gave tongue because I did, no response or cheer was given to my efforts. In a few seconds we found ourselves through the brake at the farthest corner up wind, and in close proximity to the dreaded presence of Ned Adams. “War hare, puppy!” hallooed he, riding at me, and cracking his heavy whip. “War hare! war hare! Hark back! hark back!” Learning that I had committed an error, I was not slow to obey the caution, by getting out of the reach of the thong; although, as I afterwards discovered, there was no fear of being punished for a fault until it had been repeated. Scarcely had I again turned into the brake, when my friend Trimbush gave a deep-toned note, announcing that a fox was afoot. “Hoik to Trimbush!” hallooed the huntsman--“Hoik to Trimbush!” and, as a bunch of hounds took up the cry, he added, “Hoik together, hoik!” Galloping on the line where three or four couple of the knowing ones were feathering their sterns and ringing their music, I for the first time winded a fox. Anxious to distinguish myself, I at once began making more din about it than all the old hounds put together. “Don’t jingle your tongue as if you were currant-jelly hunting,” said Trimbush, contemptuously, as I joined his side. “A workman,” continued he, “never wastes his breath with too much whistling.” Feeling that there was truth in his chiding, I changed my tone, and gave tongue only when my friend did. “That’s right,” remarked Trimbush, flattered at my observing his dictate: “now you sound like business.”