“Within five minutes of tailing you off,” replied he, “I ran him from scent to view; and if he had not gone to ground, I’d have broken him up without any sharers in the feast. As it was,” he continued, “he was so hot and beaten that he couldn’t lie more than a few inches from the mouth of the earth; and there we remained, with our red rags out, panting and grinning at each other for hours. Now and then I had a scratching dig for him; but finding that I could make no progress for the roots, left at last reluctantly, and pointed for home, where I arrived when the stars were twinkling.”
“Did you see Ned Adams upon your return?” I inquired.
“No,” replied Trimbush. “Mark, the feeder, was waiting for me, knowing that I should be back in the course of the night, let the distance be ever so great; and the good old fellow examined my feet and gave me a good supper, without the least show of bad temper for having kept him from bed.”
“The second whip would not have treated ye so,” I observed.
“Perhaps not,” returned he. “You mustn’t suppose, however, that Ned bears any malice. He might feel vexed and chafed at not being able to obey orders, but he always lets bygones be bygones.”
In the course of discussion relative to the events of our stolen run, and during which the remainder of our companions formed a willing auditory, I asked Trimbush how he discovered the difference between the scent of a dog fox and that of a vixen.
“In the first place,” responded he, “it is never so strong; and when she has either laid down her cubs, is about to do so, or has not left off suckling, there is a peculiar odour with her which cannot be mistaken. Now, most animals,” continued he, “as I observed yesterday, have an aversion to kill those in any of the situations just described; but I should have added, when the purpose is to eat them. For instance, a stoat will not touch a rabbit when about to litter; but a terrier would kill her in a moment. This is the reason that so few birds are killed whose nests are on the ground. The weazel avoids the partridge and lark whilst setting, and the fox passes the pheasant.”
“What!” exclaimed I. “Won’t a fox snap a pheasant from her nest?”
“Gamekeepers,” resumed Trimbush, “would tell you, ‘Always when an opportunity presents itself;’ but I know better. A vixen, with a large litter, and food scanty, will do so now and then, I don’t deny; but what does she get? Skin, bone, and feathers—a most unsavoury morsel, for which the cubs will scarcely care to fight. The mother knows this well enough, and, unless driven to extremities, never takes any kind of bird from her nest.”
“The farmer’s wife tells a different story,” I observed.