“My hounds deserve their fox, sir,” replied the Squire. “He is beaten, and nothing but an accidental escape—like this might have been—could have saved him. There have been no unfair means used, from the find to the finish; and the only illiberal, unsportsman-like act, would be now to run the risk of robbing the hounds of that which they have justly won and made their own.”
Not exactly among us, but not far from where I stood—I think Will did it on purpose to please me—the fox was thrown, and my teeth were the first to fix themselves across his loins. I had been taught in cub-hunting not to gripe elsewhere; but as it was, he gave me a nasty pinch in the cheek.
In a few moments afterwards he was given to us to be broken up, and then somebody asked the Squire “if he would not try for another fox, as it was early?”
“No,” replied our master, shaking his head. “We are fifteen miles from kennel. The hounds have had a good deal of fatiguing work in cover, and are satisfied with a novel but glorious finish. I shall not run the risk of tiring them more, perhaps for nothing, and doing away with that spirit which the sport of the day must have given, I hope, to every one present.” And lifting his hat, string high, he bowed and joined the side of his huntsman.
As we trotted along down a bye road, with our sterns well up over our backs, and feeling as proud as peacocks, I heard Will Sykes remark, “It was a good forty minutes, sir.”
“Yes,” replied his master with a slight smile, “but it would not have been so long if you had made that cast.”
“If I had done that, sir,” replied the huntsman, dropping his voice to a whisper, “if I had done that, sir,” repeated he, “we should have lost our fox.”
“Let them alone, eh?” rejoined the Squire, smiling more perceptibly.
“Ay,” returned Will. “Let them alone is a beautiful rule.”