For fifteen minutes we burst him along as hard as we could split. The day was fine and warm, and, sinking the wind, the pace began to tell most terribly upon some of us young ones.
“I feel very choky,” said I, doing my best to keep my place.
“Hold on,” returned Trimbush. “He must have crossed the Kulm stream, and there we shall get a cooling plunge.”
In a handful of seconds we neared the water, and dashed into it with as much delight as a flock of thirsty ducks.
“Now,” said Trimbush, “you’ll be able to reach the brake, where, I’d bet my stern to a buck rabbit’s scut, he’ll hang as long as he can and dare.”
“Why so?” inquired I.
“Why so!” repeated Trimbush, rather contemptuously. “Because he must know by this time that he can’t outrun us. The scent’s too good, and we got away with him on such terms that nothing but reaching a strong earth, or changing to a fresh fox, can save him.”
“We must try to keep to our hunted one,” said I, thinking it was exhibiting some wisdom.
“Try!” repeated my friend; “of course we shall try. We always do; but it’s sometimes impossible to distinguish the difference between the scent of our hunted fox and a fresh one. It’s easy enough, when a fox is viewed, to know, because it can be seen whether he’s been shoved along at the expense of his bellows and toilet; but our noses can’t be depended upon.”
As Trimbush said, upon gaining the brake we found the fox hanging in it; and, although very hot, we gave him such a towelling, that, so far from improving his condition, he had better have taken to his pads and faced the open. I saw him a dozen times in cover, and his red rag hung from his open jaws, and his brush dragged along the ground. We pressed him up and down across the rides at a killing pace, and although there was no bullying by holding him in cover, and every opportunity given him to quit it, he still stuck to his quarters.