“No,” replied Will. “The season’s too forward, and the Squire said yesterday he would only hunt twice more.”
“That’s bad news,” observed Trimbush. “However,” said he, “the noses on the kennel-door show that we have given a good account of our foxes.”
“The devil’s own is not there,” replied I. “How is that?”
“No,” rejoined the old hound. “His head was sent to be mounted as a cup, I heard Tom tell Ned Adams, and it is always to be placed in the middle of the table at the hunt-dinner.”
“I’m glad of that,” returned I.
“No doubt you are,” added Trimbush, “and so am I. It will be a lasting record of a run that, if equalled, was never beaten.”
“What was the time, do you suppose?” inquired I.
“Not a minute less than five hours,” responded my companion.
“How proud the Squire and all of them were upon our return!” said I.
“Yes,” rejoined the old hound. “I thought we should be killed by that which seldom forms the ground of coroners’ inquests—excessive kindness.”