“You shall either run or die,” said Trimbush, going through the cover like a bullet.
A clear, musical “Tally-ho” now echoed far and wide.
“Gone away at last, eh?” observed my friend, and, throwing up his head, he rushed to the halloo.
“Hold hard!” roared the Squire, as one, too eager, rode nearly over me as I leaped from the cover. “You almost killed, sir,” continued he, “the best of my young entry, and perhaps the most valuable puppy I ever bred.”
“I beg your pardon, sir; but my horse pulls so, that——”
“Then he is not fit to ride to hounds, sir,” hastily rejoined the Squire.
Being high on our mettle, we flashed forward, after just touching the scent on a dry-lying fallow, thinking that we had struck on his line; but Trimbush, and a few of the old hounds, soon found that they were wrong, and, throwing up their heads, came to a check.
“Let them alone,” said the Squire, as Will Sykes indicated a disposition to make a hasty cast down wind. “Let them alone,” repeated he.
“He’s certain to be making for the belt of covers on the ridge, sir,” replied Will, “and the ploughs are so dry that it is impossible for hounds to carry it over them.”
“Let them alone,” quietly rejoined the Squire. “Let them alone.”