As he approaches the wood, a wave of the hand sends the whole pack tumbling in, the two whips taking their stations like clockwork. With a "'War'oss!" the old Huntsman jumps into cover, and though lost to sight his voice is heard out of the woods cheering on his hounds. "Eugh, at 'im, my beauties. Eugh, doit, eugh, boys," he shouts; and the pack, who have learnt to love, ay, and what is more, respect their tutor, fly to his holloa, each doing what our American cousins call their "level best" to please him.
Tom, when he gets home, will not fail over his glass and pipe to recount exactly what each of his favourites did at each particular spot, for nothing escapes his quick eye, and he fully returns with interest the love of the Bullshire Hounds, of which he has been Huntsman for some eighteen years, and in which position he hopes to remain until he is, as he puts it, "run to ground."
Before leaving him, one anecdote will suffice to show the kindliness of the old man's heart towards dumb animals. They had had a long wearing day over a heavy country, with but little or no scent, and Tom found himself on leaving off some eighteen miles from the kennels. On arrival, after seeing that his darlings were all right (a duty he never neglected), he thought it about time to look after himself, and had just sat down to his well-earned supper, when a small boy arrived at his house, crying fit to break his heart. "What's up, my lad?" said Tom. "P-p-please, sir," replied the urchin between his sobs, "old Bob's b-b-een runned over, and they is broke 'is leg, bo-hoo! and mother s-says as how he mun be shot—for her canna mend it; and if yer p-please, Bob allas slept along wi' me sin' 'e wur a puppy, a-and I c-can't abear it, bo-hoo!" "Well, boy, don't 'e cry; I'll come down mysen and see tew 'im," said the old Huntsman; and, tired and supperless as he was, he there and then put on his coat and tramped off the best part of a mile to see to the crippled terrier, and after setting the leg and making the poor dog as comfortable as he could, he sat up best part of the night nursing it as a mother would her baby. It was three o'clock in the morning before Tom got into his bed; and he will tell you how tired he was, but he will also say: "Poor old doggie, 'e was just for all the world like a Christian. There was none on 'em as knowed aught about it, and when I'd done 'is leg he wagged 'is stump of a tail, saying plain enough: 'Don't 'e go now; I'm main thankful to yer, but don't 'e go,' that I couldna a-bear to leave 'im till 'e wur a bit more comfortable like. You see, we can holloa out, but them dum' animals canna." Bob, the old dog, is still alive, and the boy is now an under-keeper, but neither of them forget old Tom's kindness, and both would almost lay down their lives for the Huntsman of the Bullshire Hounds.
THE WHIPS.
"'Say, Harry, the old man killed his fox well to-day," says Charles, the First Whip, to his junior, as they jog home to the kennels in the evening.
"Umph!" replies Harry; "but he need not have dropped it so hot on to me just because them two couple of loiterers stopped back. Blessed if I ever saw such hounds as them for messing about in cover. It's always the same. Caterer and Bellman, Pillager and Marksman, never up in time; and then if I gets on a bit, it's 'Where's them two couple? Go back and fetch 'em at once.' Dashed if I oughtn't to take a return ticket to every field in the county."