We now carried the drag into the cover, and Trimbush and myself acknowledged the scent. Will gave us a cheer that startled many a pigeon from her roost, and Tom Holt and Ned Adams spurred right and left, with orders to head short back every fox that made his appearance. We got up to our cub, and drove him through the cover at a slashing rate. The morning being warm, and the scent good, there was no breathing time, and the pace soon began to tell upon the family of foxes, which we were now racing in divided lots.
“How many of them are there?” inquired the Squire.
“Not less than two brace and a half, sir,” replied the huntsman.
“Very good,” rejoined his master. “Let the vixen go if she will.”
He then galloped towards Tom Holt, and just as he was about cracking his whip, a signal from the Squire stopped him.
“Come from this corner,” said he, “and let the old one go, and as soon as these hounds come out with the scent, stop them, and take them to William.”
Scarcely were the instructions given, when the vixen took advantage of the opportunity, and broke away at her best pace. The lot settled to her were stopped, and taken to the huntsman at the top of a ride, in about the middle of the cover.
Being joined in one body, we now pressed our cub most severely; and I viewed him cross two or three rides with his red rag out, in a truly sinking condition.
“This cub is very much distressed, sir,” observed the huntsman, “and if they don’t get one of the others up, for they have all dropped but this, they’ll soon run into him.”
I now heard a succession of cracks from a thong, which I knew to be Ned Adams’s.