Our first draw was Pickton brake, a large furze cover about a mile and a half from the meet, and there we trotted with the gratifying expectation of a sure find.
“Mind what I say,” remarked Trimbush, “if you don’t keep your eyes and ears backward as well as forward to-day, you will have a dozen horses go over ye and not a bone left in your skin unbroken. Be quick as lightning, and if you flash over the scent, never mind; don’t throw up and check if there’s a chance of being ridden over. I never do. It’s not our fault if they won’t give us room.”
“I’ll take care of myself,” replied I.
Upon nearing the cover the office was given, and into it we dashed, and shortly afterwards the whimperings in various parts proved that there was more than one fox in it. I hit upon a drag and opened loudly, when Trimbush reproved me, after poking his nose where I had mine, saying, “Not so noisy, not so noisy. Let’s have a distinction between opening on a drag, and a good hearty challenge when he’s found.”
An old favourite line hunter, called Rasselas, now threw his tongue.
“That’s it,” said Trimbush, flying to the cry, and taking it up, his roar thundered through the brake.
“Have at him!” hallooed Will Sykes. “Have at him, hoik. Hoik, hoik together!”
It was evident that a brace was on foot, and the Squire, looking more serious than usual, desired that the field might move away from one side of the cover and be quiet, otherwise there was a probability of a chop taking place.
About a minute afterwards, out came a fine, lengthy dog-fox.
“Tally-ho!” shrieked a muffin on a hired knacker, and back the fox dived into the brake again.