“Lick that stain off your flank,” said Trimbush, pointing to the dirt on my side.

“Why should I be so particular?” replied I, obeying his instructions, “we don’t go out to-day.”

“No,” rejoined he; “but the Squire’s coming to inspect us, and, I suppose, you’d like to appear nice and comely in his eyes.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, applying my tongue more diligently to the completion of my toilet.

“You’ll see in a few minutes,” added Trimbush, “and if everything isn’t in gingerly order, I’ll bet a week’s meal and broth, those will hear of it who are responsible for their neglect.”

The greatest neatness and cleanliness were always observed in our kennel; but I noticed old Mark had put a polish on his shoes, and a white neckerchief was tied, with much skill displayed in the bow, round his throat. Will Sykes, too, Tom Holt, and Ned Adams, upon entering the court, exhibited more care than usual in their dress on non-hunting days.

The huntsman, glancing round and seeing all was unobjectionable as far as his hope and belief went, pulled a watch out of his fob, and observed that “the Squire will be here in seven minutes three-eighths.”

“Can you time him to a second?” said Mark smiling.

“Ay,” replied Will, “it doesn’t require a gauge to do that with his rules.”

As a distant clock was striking, the bell rung at the kennel door.

“I said so,” remarked the huntsman, and upon opening it he lifted his hat, and in walked our worthy master.

“Now for my frock,” said he, and one as white as snow was brought by old Mark, who was sensitively jealous of the privilege of assisting the Squire to make his kennel toilet.

When attired he proceeded to the boiling-house, examined the boiling flesh, coppers, and everything belonging to that department. Then turning into the feeding-room, he looked at the troughs and expressed himself satisfied with the perfect order that all things were in belonging to this.

In going to the lodging rooms, Will Sykes said, “How would you like to have them drawn, sir?”

“Each hound singly,” replied the Squire, “and the entry first.”

It was some little time before it came to my turn; but when my name was called out I sprang, and as soon as I made my appearance, the Squire took a piece of biscuit from his pocket and throwing it to me, said “Here Ringwood, beauty,” and caressed me kindly.

One or two of my young companions evinced some temper and jealousy at this, and growled deeply with up-reared hackles.

“Come, come,” hallooed Tom, correctingly, and a crack from his thong soon silenced the grumblers.

“His nose is hot,” observed the Squire, touching my nostrils, and standing a few feet back followed up the remark by saying, “What is that redness on his flank?”

“A little heat, I think, sir,” replied the huntsman, making a more careful examination of me.

“Then cool him,” was the reply, “and let him stay at home to-morrow.”

I was very sorry to hear this order given; for although I felt far from being in health, I was anything but disposed to be placed on the hospital list.

Being passed forward to the others, Vanquisher was summoned, and the Squire noticing him limp, said, “What is the matter with that hound? He’s lame.”

“He has cut his near fore-foot a little,” replied Will.

“Let me see,” rejoined our master, and upon lifting it up, said, “He has sprung a claw, and you ought to have known it.”

The huntsman’s face became a little flushed, and he looked as if he felt the rebuke keenly.

There was no further remark of censure after this, and when the entire presentation had been gone through with, the Squire took his departure, expressing himself perfectly satisfied and content with the general arrangements of the establishment.

“I’m not going out to-morrow,” said I to Trimbush, with my spirits down to zero.

“Never mind,” replied my friend; adding, by way of consolation, that he would give me a good account of the day’s sport.

“Yes,” rejoined I, “but that’s a poor makeshift for the disappointment of not joining in it.”

“Well, well!” added he, hastily. “We can’t have everything as we could wish, and must make the best of crooked matters when they occur. I dare say,” continued Trimbush, “that the blow you received the other day, with the fright, may have put you out of sorts.”

“Probably,” said I, “and I wish the fellow——”

“Pish, pish!” interrupted my companion. “You might as well wish him good as wish him evil. We have no more power in the one case than in the other, and it’s old womanish to snap your teeth when you can’t bite.”

“I heard a man say, when we were out last,” said I, resolved to take advantage of Trimbush’s present loquacious humour; for the old hound spent most of his time in a sort of dreaming, winking, blinking state in the kennel, and was excessively out of temper if disturbed, “I heard a man say when we were out last,” repeated I, “that he liked to see a flying hound, and would hang every line-hunter that was ever bred.”

“He must have known a great deal about fox-hunting,” replied Trimbush, with a sarcastic grin, “a very great deal indeed. I should like to have his name and address.”

“Of course he was wrong,” observed I, with a slight touch of the interrogative in the remark.

“Wrong?” repeated Trimbush. “Ha, ha, ha! It makes my old sides ache again. What would the flying, flashy devils do when the scent fails at head if it was not for the line-hunters? By a line-hunter, I don’t mean one of those old pottering fools who stick their noses to the ground as if they intended them to take root there; but a hound, that when he has stopped long enough to satisfy himself that he is on the line, holds forward, and occasionally feels for the scent. That is what I call a killing line-hunter, and is a guide and pilot for the pack. Often will you see the flyers with their heads up and sterns down, and no more notion of stooping than a flock of stray pigeons, flash a field or two over the scent, and then back they turn and follow the line-hunter in his cast, and the moment he touches it, at him they dash, catch it up, and away they race again. But who gets all the praise?” continued the old hound, “Why, those who did none of the work.”

“The Squire would give the applause to whom it was due, though,” replied I.

“Yes, yes, yes,” rejoined my companion, “and so would every true sportsman; but where there is one who understands fox-hunting as a science, there are five hundred who know no more about it than un-hatched tom tits. There are foxes and circumstances,” continued he, “that will beat the best huntsman that ever cheered a hound or blew a horn; but in nine cases out of ten the cause lies in not paying attention to the line-hunters. Hang every line-hunter that was ever bred! Ha, ha, ha!” and the old hound’s laugh of derision rung through the courts and lodging-houses far and wide.

“I am very glad you told me this,” returned I; “for I began to think, from what I heard, there was nothing so likely to insure the praise of the field as having one’s head in the air and flying like a bird.”

“Nor is there,” added Trimbush. “But who cares for the praise of a set of fools? I’d rather have one ‘Yo—o’ from our master, or a ‘Hark to Trimbush, have at him, hark,’ from Will Sykes, than all the yells and whoops from the greatest mob that ever met by a cover-side.”

“That’s true,” said I. “There’s no pleasure to be had from their cheer.”

“Only last season,” continued my friend, “some fellow who was dressed as if he knew better, absolutely cheered a second-season hound babbling the moment he was in cover. ‘Softly, softly,’ hallooed Will, cracking his whip. ‘Why, it’s a challenge,’ said the gentleman in pink. ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Will, ‘such a challenge that will cause him to have a hempen cord put round his throat to-morrow morning. We’ve put up with his noise long enough, and longer than the Squire would have done had I obeyed his orders strictly.’”

“And was he hung!” inquired I, feeling a cold shiver run through my veins.

“Yes,” replied Trimbush. “He was led out of the court the next day, with a rope round his neck, to suffer for his repeated offence. It made us very sad to see him taken away; but no caution or punishment could break him of the habit, and his example was a shocking one for the young entry.”

“I’ll take great care not to acquire such an one,” said I.

“Several made the same remark,” replied Trimbush, “and some, who were rather prone to indulge in kicking up a row for nothing, made serious resolutions to avoid doing so for the future, when the fate of the babbler was witnessed.”

“It was necessary, I suppose, for the discipline of the pack?” rejoined I.

“Ay,” added the old hound, “if it were not for strict discipline we should be as ungovernable, wild, and useless as a lot of untamed tigers. Indeed,” continued he, “I’m not certain that the tigers couldn’t be turned to greater advantage.”