“Except the foxes in it,” replied I.
“Oh!” rejoined he, “I have no enmity towards them. It’s the combined joy of finding, running, and beating them, and the pleasure of——”
“Eating them,” added I.
“Well?” continued he, as if weighing the sentence, “I suppose we may say that, too; but I am rather doubtful about it.”
“About what?” inquired I.
“About the eating part of the business,” replied he. “It’s true that we break up a fox, and swallow him as if we loved his carcase better than any other kind of flesh. But, in my opinion, it is more from the excitement we are worked into than from any desirable flavour he possesses. A fox is too near ourselves for him to be considered proper food for our stomachs. It’s approaching particularly close to dog eating dog.”
“But that you did once,” said I.
“Yes,” responded Trimbush, carelessly, “I know I did, and might again, under similar circumstances. It only shows,” he continued, “what we will do when in a rage or in an excited state. There is nothing with life, from an elephant to a cockroach, but we would have a shy at.”
“Then you don’t believe that we really love the varmint as a dainty morsel?” rejoined I.
“No,” returned he, “I think not. Fancy, for instance, your killing and eating the poor little vixen chained just outside the kennel door.”