“Wrong?” repeated Trimbush. “Ha, ha, ha! It makes my old sides ache again. What would the flying, flashy devils do when the scent fails at head if it was not for the line-hunters? By a line-hunter, I don’t mean one of those old pottering fools who stick their noses to the ground as if they intended them to take root there; but a hound, that when he has stopped long enough to satisfy himself that he is on the line, holds forward, and occasionally feels for the scent. That is what I call a killing line-hunter, and is a guide and pilot for the pack. Often will you see the flyers with their heads up and sterns down, and no more notion of stooping than a flock of stray pigeons, flash a field or two over the scent, and then back they turn and follow the line-hunter in his cast, and the moment he touches it, at him they dash, catch it up, and away they race again. But who gets all the praise?” continued the old hound, “Why, those who did none of the work.”
“The Squire would give the applause to whom it was due, though,” replied I.
“Yes, yes, yes,” rejoined my companion, “and so would every true sportsman; but where there is one who understands fox-hunting as a science, there are five hundred who know no more about it than un-hatched tom tits. There are foxes and circumstances,” continued he, “that will beat the best huntsman that ever cheered a hound or blew a horn; but in nine cases out of ten the cause lies in not paying attention to the line-hunters. Hang every line-hunter that was ever bred! Ha, ha, ha!” and the old hound’s laugh of derision rung through the courts and lodging-houses far and wide.
“I am very glad you told me this,” returned I; “for I began to think, from what I heard, there was nothing so likely to insure the praise of the field as having one’s head in the air and flying like a bird.”
“Nor is there,” added Trimbush. “But who cares for the praise of a set of fools? I’d rather have one ‘Yo—o’ from our master, or a ‘Hark to Trimbush, have at him, hark,’ from Will Sykes, than all the yells and whoops from the greatest mob that ever met by a cover-side.”
“That’s true,” said I. “There’s no pleasure to be had from their cheer.”
“Only last season,” continued my friend, “some fellow who was dressed as if he knew better, absolutely cheered a second-season hound babbling the moment he was in cover. ‘Softly, softly,’ hallooed Will, cracking his whip. ‘Why, it’s a challenge,’ said the gentleman in pink. ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Will, ‘such a challenge that will cause him to have a hempen cord put round his throat to-morrow morning. We’ve put up with his noise long enough, and longer than the Squire would have done had I obeyed his orders strictly.’”
“And was he hung!” inquired I, feeling a cold shiver run through my veins.
“Yes,” replied Trimbush. “He was led out of the court the next day, with a rope round his neck, to suffer for his repeated offence. It made us very sad to see him taken away; but no caution or punishment could break him of the habit, and his example was a shocking one for the young entry.”
“I’ll take great care not to acquire such an one,” said I.