“When allowed to make our own casts, which we always should at first,” remarked Trimbush, poking his nose to the ground, “we try down wind first, because that’s the way foxes constantly run. It’s time enough to cast up when we’ve made good the cast down. Humph!” continued he, as if puzzled, “I begin to think Will’s wrong.”
“What do you mean?” inquired I.
“I don’t fancy he’s pointed for the covers on the ridge,” returned Trimbush; “let’s see whether he hasn’t headed back,” continued he.
We now tried up wind, and, sure enough, hit it off again under a hedgerow.
“Ha, ha!” laughed Trimbush. “He’s a sinking one, and has turned to die.”
We now rattled on full swing over a common, and on climbing a steep hill I saw a magpie darting to the ground and then rising high in the air to swoop again.
“What’s that chattering pie doing?” inquired I, directing Trimbush’s attention to the bird.
“Mobbing him,” replied he. “The magpie, jay and crow love to mob a sinking fox. Keep your eye forward; it will soon be from scent to view.”
“Are those covers strong?” I asked, seeing that we were making for a long line of trees.
“Little more than spinnies,” replied my friend. “He can’t hang in them a minute.”