“He’s headed a fox back,” said Trimbush, exultingly, “but it isn’t our hunted one. He’s out—come along.”
A bunch of us swept from the side of the cover, and with heads up, dashed across a field, before Will was aware that we had got away.
“They’re out, by heaven!” exclaimed the huntsman. “Where can Ned be?”
“All right,” returned the Squire. “They broke from the side, and no one’s to blame.”
We carried the scent through the first hedge into a summerland, and threw up. Will, coming up, took hold of us rather hastily, and cast us down wind.
“Gently, William, gently,” said his master, reprovingly. “You appear to have forgotten the golden rule of letting them alone.”
We felt down wind for some distance, but not making it out, turned up, and as we were passing the spot where we had jumped through the hedge, a thought struck me that the cub might be skulking in the ditch on the other side. Popping my nose down, I dropped into it, and finding instantly that I was right, I rushed through the brambles, and just as he was about to spring out, I caught him across a tender part, and with one pinch he was as dead as a salt herring.
“Who-whoop!” hallooed the Squire. “Who-whoop, my beauty!”
To the envy of most of my companions, I received great praise for this kill from our master, who seemed not to know how to make enough of me on our road home.
“Yo-o, Ringwood!” cried he, throwing me a bit of biscuit from his pocket. “Yo-o, Ringwood, darling,” and then turning to Will, said, “What a mercy such a hound as that was not destroyed through my haste!”