“Keep your tongue still,” snapped Trimbush. “Like most puppies, two-legged and four, if they possess a good voice, they seldom exhibit equal good sense in using it.”
Twing, twing, twang, twa—a—ng, went Will Sykes’s horn, as he jammed his horse through bush and briar.
“For’ard, for’ard,” shouted Tom Holt. “Get to him, hounds, get to him.”
“Come along,” said Trimbush. “Stick to me.”
“What a clean, fine, lengthy fellow he is!” I heard some one remark. “His point’s Picton Brake.”
“Yes,” replied another. “His brush must be two feet: and what a snowy tag to it!”
“Indeed!” observed Trimbush. “Then we’ll give it such a dusting as to change its colour pretty quickly.”
A bunch of old hounds flew out of cover with us, and, taking up the scent, away we rattled in a body, as close as a swarm of bees.
“They won’t over-ride us to-day,” remarked I.
“Not if the scent lasts as good as it is,” replied Trimbush; “but that’s doubtful.”