“He can’t last the distance,” replied Rubicon. “We shall run him from scent to view in less than another mile.”
“So I think,” rejoined Wildboy. “His red rag’s hanging from his jaws worse than mine, I know, and that feels like dried chalk.”
“We shall come to soil presently,” returned Loyalty. “There’s the Loam stream not far a-head.”
“Egad!” added Dashwood, “but I wish it was in my next stride. I’m blistered with thirst.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Trimbush, “to find him try an artful move at the Loam. Be careful, my hearts, and don’t flash forward on the opposite bank. Feel for it as you go, and make good inch by inch, rather than be in doubt. We shall save time by the trouble.”
Thus schooled, we took especial care, upon refreshing ourselves in the Loam, to follow the instructions given, and our first cast was along the verge down stream, which, also, chanced to be down wind.
“This is his line,” said Trimbush, evidently puzzled, “and yet——”
“Let us try up wind,” interrupted Dashwood, “he may have headed, as he’s a sinking one.”
“You flatter yourself,” returned the old hound; “he has as much life in him as will serve to test your pluck and powers for an hour to come.”
“But he may have headed back,” observed Wildboy.