Perhaps after a month or two in the workhouse, he may turn over a new leaf and so get some berth; but under existing circumstances, as old Tom told him one day, if he loses his place he will have either to starve or let himself out as a scarecrow at so much a-day. Therefore, for his own sake, it is to be hoped next season he will improve his manners, and so remain in the only position for which he is suited—to wit, the Man at the Toll-bar.
WHO-WHOOP!
A bright warm morning in April, with just enough keenness in the air to make one say to oneself: "There's a chance of a scent this morning."
A day on which that peculiar freshness of the new-born spring seems to pervade everything. The buds on the roadside hedges, wet with a passing shower, sparkle and glint in the sunshine, and the grass on the banks is green and moist.
Even old Tom feels the effect of the glorious day, though he does anathematise the "stinking violets" as he rides to the closing meet at Fallow Field, and wonders "'ow in the name of all that's merciful t' hounds can work in cover with the 'nation primroses a-coming out."
Still, he knows well that there has been such a thing before now as a real "buster" in April, and he looks approvingly on the surroundings, and mutters to himself that, "If t' sun wunna come out too strong, they may be able to do summat arter all."
As the hounds move jauntily along, it is evident to the merest tyro that their condition is as nearly perfect as can be, and that the wear and tear of the past season has had but little effect on them. Indeed Tom is quite ready to go on the whole year round if it were possible; and as Harry rides after Belldame, whose spirits have got the better of her discipline (an old hare in the hedgerow having proved irresistible), he says: "Let t' ould bitch alone, Harry; 'er won't 'ave another chance this year, more's the pity; they mun do as they're a-mind to-day—till wa cum to business at all events."