Upon pushing my nose among the group, I inhaled a slight scent of the animal; but it was very faint.
“It’s a stale drag,” said Trimbush, “and he may be twenty miles away by this time. Who opened on it?” asked he.
“Boaster,” replied I, fearing that he might think me guilty of the puppy-like deed.
“Then I tell you this, youngster,” rejoined the old hound, “if you’re so free with your tongue, you’ll have reason to wish, some day, that it had been cut out at your birth.”
“But it was the right scent,” expostulated Boaster; “and how could I tell if it was stale or not?”
“Then your nose is not worth a damn,” returned Trimbush, passionately. “At any rate,” continued he, “you might have a little decent modesty, and not take precedency of us.”
Trimbush placed a very strong emphasis upon the “us,” and Boaster, ashamed and abashed, drooped his stern, and, for the remainder of the day, did not again attempt playing first fiddle.
We were now taken about two miles, and thrown into a large rambling cover, composed of patches of gorse, bramble, and nutwood.
“I saw some fresh billets just now, sir,” said Ned Adams to the Squire.
“Where?”