“Now then,” said Trimbush cheerily; “up with your head and down with your stern. Come along, the scent’s a burning one.”
The instant that Trimbush was free of the cover, he laid himself upon the line, and raced like a greyhound; I following in his wake. Hearing the heavy stride of a horse in our rear, I turned my head to see who was following.
“Take no notice,” said the old hound: “If Ned gets to our heads—and he’ll prick blood for it, I’ll be sworn—the sport’s all over with us.”
“What the deuce does he want to stop us for?” inquired I.
“Pooh,” rejoined Trimbush. “Rattle on.”
The second whip came spurring on with the evident desire of reaching us; but the faster he came, the faster we flew.
“Ha, ha!” laughed Trimbush; “we’ll give ye a sob for it.”
Along two open grass fields we led the whipper-in; and then, for more than a mile, up a long, narrow lane, flanked by two high banks.
“I haven’t carried a bit of scent since we left the turf,” observed I.
“Nor I either,” replied my companion.