“Well, well!” interrupted Rubicon, “I admit it. The fact is I jumped on the heap for a very different purpose, and as I did so, I felt something move under my feet. A thought struck me——”
“As it did me,” interrupted Trimbush, “before commencing your explanation. We owe the kill to chance.”
CHAPTER XIII.
“Now the hill, the hedge, are green,
Now the warbler’s throat’s in tune,
Blithsome is the verdant scene,
Brightened by the beams of noon.”
It was a sultry summer’s day, and Trimbush and myself were luxuriating under the wide-spreading and deep shade of a walnut tree growing near the kennel. Five or six of our companions, on the free list, like ourselves, were lounging about in the coolest spots, and their only occasional signs of life, as they laid upon the ground, consisted in brushing the buzzing flies from their nostrils and hides, and, now and then, making a snap at their enemies. Wearied, at length, with my own laziness, I made an effort to draw Trimbush into conversation, by asking him the cause of kennel lameness.