"Where? There's never no cur here!"
"You lie, you oaf—no—why—Doctor—How many hounds are there here?"
"I can't see," says Tom, "among those bushes."
"Can't see, eh? Why don't those brutes hit it off?" says Trebooze, drawling, as if he had forgotten the matter, and lounging over the fence, drops into the stream, followed by Tom, and wades across.
The hounds are all round him, and he is couraging them on, fussing again more than ever; but without success.
"Gone to hole somewhere here," says Peter.
"….!" cries Trebooze, looking round, with a sudden shudder, and face of terror. "There's that black brute again! there, behind me! Hang it, he'll bite me next!" and he caught up his leg, and struck behind him with his spear.
There was no dog there.
Peter was about to speak; but Tom silenced him by a look, and shouted,—
"Here we are! Gone to holt in this alder root!"