“Just under that ash, and on the edge of the gap, sir,” replied the second whip.
“Very well,” rejoined his master.
I was close to Dashwood and Trimbush, when both stopped suddenly, and simultaneously throwing up their heads, both gave long bell-like notes, which rung and echoed far and near.
“Hark to Trimbush!” cried Will Sykes; “hark to Dashwood, hark, hark!” and then, as I and others picked up the grateful scent, and threw our tongues cheerfully, he hallooed, “Hark together, hark!”
Now we closed; now we went full swing. Up went Tom Holt’s cap.
“It’s a vixen, sir,” I heard him say.
“Stop them, then,” replied our master, “and let her go. We can’t spare a bitch fox now.”
Out we crashed; but Tom charged at our heads, cracking his awful double thong, and being well mounted, the most daring of us knew that it was hopeless to endeavour to get away with her. Boaster was the only one who made a lame attempt, and he instantly got a cut across the loins, which sent him flying back into cover howling most piteously.
“It’s a hard case,” said Trimbush, doggedly, “to be whipped off in this fashion, and I don’t think it’s fair. When too late to kill vixens,” continued he, with little apparent inclination to draw the cover again, “why not give up hunting altogether?”
“You would be the last to carry out that principle, I’m sure,” observed Rubicon.