“But the more we kill, the greater kill-devils we become,” said I.
“That’s true,” added my companion. “As in everything else, the supreme gratification lies in securing the object sought to be gained, and the running into our fox is ours. The same rule would apply to our killing but seldom, and consequently being generally disappointed, as to pointers and setters having very few birds shot over them. Continued mortification would render all much less ardent for the work, in consequence of the dearth of the great climax to sport; not from the covetous, greedy, piggish, grovelling want of the material to lick our chops.”
Finding Trimbush getting warm upon the subject, I thought it better not to provoke the discussion further, and made no reply. The old hound, however, continued to abuse mankind in general, for some minutes, for entertaining such a low estimate of our motives in the chase, and wound up his observations by saying, “It’s not to be wondered at; for true sportsmen are born, like poets—chaps with as much music in their souls as we have in our tongues—now and then; but fools come into the world every second.”
CHAPTER X.
“For with a sigh, a blast of all his breath,
That viewless thing, called life, did from him steal.”
We were trotting leisurely to cover, one morning, when I remarked that Trimbush was more serious and silent than usual.
“What are you thinking about?” said I.