“He’s got un, Jim. See how eh crosses the line o’ scent see-saw like. ’Pend upon et, ’tes a find.”
The hound now left the edge of the cover near the bog and worked round its upper side. Losing the scent he came back, recovered it, threw his tongue and dashed into the brake.
“Thet’s what I do caal rason in a dog,” whispered Andrew, whilst his restless eyes watched every point of escape for a view of the fox.
In a moment the pack rallied to the trusted voice of Troubadour, and the furze was soon alive with waving sterns.
“What moosic, Jim! Look out, slyboots’ll be gone in a twinklin’.”
“Theere’s the fox staling away along by them theere brembles.”
“I caan’t see un,” said Roscruge. And truly none but a trained eye like Andrew’s, which saw a suspicion of brown here and a tell-tale movement of tangled growth beyond, could mark the course of the sly varmint. It had eluded the gaze of the whippers-in. Grasping the situation, Andrew ran to where he last saw the fox and gave a loud tally-ho.
Then all was stir: the field seemed electrified. Shipowner, miner, farmer, ay and squire, parson, soldier and whipper-in, each forgot his worries—for who has none?—and black care lay in the wake of the hunt.
“Lor’, how they do race,” said Andrew as the hounds, with a burst of music, streamed across the heather. “The fox is maakin’ for cleff. Desperate plaace thet; but as luck will have et the tide is out.” The hunt was now lost to view, but with his hand raised to shade his eyes he kept looking towards the Galver. . . .
“They’re crossin’ the sky line. Do ee see ’em, Jim?”