“I thought so,” quietly observed Trimbush, stooping his muzzle to the ground, and drawing, with infinite gratification to his olfactory nerves. “I thought so,” repeated he: “a vixen, except she’s barren, never carries such a scent as that.”
“You know the difference, then?” returned I.
“Ay,” rejoined Trimbush; “as well as if I had helped to break her up. And so will you in a couple of seasons.”
“But how?” asked I.
“By experience,” replied my companion; “and from the natural aversion most animals have to destroy anything with or about to have young. But come,” he continued, “this is no time for talking, although we shall be stopped from getting away if they can get to our heads in time. However, keep close to me, and I’ll try to get a bat by ourselves in spite of ’em.”
“Who-whoop,” hallooed the huntsman.
“They’ve chopped a cub,” said Trimbush. “Now’s our time, if Ned Adams doesn’t head him back.”
A succession of loud cracks from a whip followed; but no halloo was given.
“He’s gone away,” remarked Trimbush, with glee; “and we’ll be on good terms with him. Stick to me.”
Keeping close to my companion’s stern, I ran stride and stride with him through the brake until we came to a corner of the cover where the fox we were hunting broke away.