“Trifles, light as air,” observed Trimbush, “are frequently of the most momentous importance. Who could have thought, now,” continued he, “that brushing a flea from your neck would have subjected ye to upwards of six weeks confinement from all society?”

“Ah!” exclaimed I, “if I could have had any anticipation of such a result, he might have sucked my blood till now.”

“I was in a terrible fright,” rejoined my friend, “that they were going to stop its circulation at once.”

“It would have been one of the most unjustifiable murders ever committed,” returned I.

“That may be all very true,” added my companion; “but what compensation would the act of injustice have been to you?”

“None,” replied I.

“There have been innumerable such-like mistakes committed,” said Trimbush, “and never discovered. Fortunately for you, the suspected had the benefit of the doubt.”

“I consider that the Squire was far too hasty in his decision regarding myself,” responded I.

“The convicted always think so,” rejoined the old hound. “However,” continued he, “I quite agree in the same opinion. There was sufficient cause for fearful apprehension, and it was impossible to calculate the amount of the calamity. But I do not think that any kind of fear should be allowed to exaggerate an injury. To observe sedulous care in preventing its extension is most wise and prudent. At the same time, if a hasty panic overrules the cooler judgment, the engendered evil may on evil’s head accumulate ten-fold. Our master was decidedly wrong in contemplating having you destroyed with such slight evidence of questionable inoculation; but he was quite right in ordering you to be drafted from the rest. The one was an unweighed, ill-judged impulse—the other, a wise precaution.”

“A distinction, with a material difference,” I observed.

“Yes,” replied he, “beyond the shadow of a doubt. I once heard,” resumed my friend, “of a M. F. H. having his entire pack destroyed, in consequence of a couple-and-a-half showing symptoms of hydrophobia—or, as we should say, in more intelligible language, a dread of water. Nothing could be more wanton or unjustifiable, and as well might an entire community of human beings be doomed to perish in consequence of one or more of its members becoming insane, as fifty or sixty couple of hounds, from the same cause.”

“Were there any other doubtful cases besides myself?” I inquired.

“No,” replied Trimbush. “All were turned over with the greatest scrutiny; but nothing suspicious appearing, we were allowed to remain as we were, with a great additional watch being kept over us. In fact, Mark, or Will Sykes, was always close by for a long time after Gameboy’s death; and if a hound growled even in his dream, one or the other was at hand in a moment. I never saw greater vigilance; and I can’t help thinking that the two kept an eye open for weeks in their sleep.”

The tramp of three horses approaching the kennel door put an end to this, our first conversation since the fatal occurrence of Gameboy’s death.

“Let ’em out, Mark,” said a well-known voice, and as the feeder threw back the door, we scrambled from the court, and ran and jumped in sportive circles about the horses. Although in the highest state of excitement, every tongue was mute, and a slight crack from Tom Holt’s whip put a considerable check to the rather violent gambols of a few of the youngest. It was not quite daylight as we trotted along between three and four miles; and as we entered a gate at the end of a by-lane, who should be standing with his reins over his arm, and leaning carelessly against the side of his horse, but our “up-with-the-lark” and excellent master.

“You are behind your time, William,” said he, throwing himself into his saddle.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” replied the huntsman, tugging at the curb chain securing his thick watch in a very deep fob, “I think not.”

“By seven minutes,” rejoined his master.

“Quite right, sir,” added Will, looking at his apoplectic time-keeper. “Seven minutes have given me the slip.”

“No matter,” returned the Squire; “we have scarcely light enough as it is.”

The narrow zig-zag lane led on to a large open grass field, on the borders of which was one of the best and strongest covers in our country.

“Who has examined this cover?” asked the Squire.

“Tom Holt, sir,” replied the huntsman.

“Where did you find most billets?”

“In the field beyond this, sir,” replied the whipper-in, with a touch of his cap.

“Very good,” rejoined his master. “Then take them there, William,” continued he, “and let the puppies see the old hounds feel for the scent.”

No sooner were we in the field spoken of by Tom Holt, than, stooping my nose to the ground, I inhaled that scent, which, from the first, sent my blood tingling through my whole body. Several began to hustle, push, and fling themselves about, and one, named Harbinger, threw his tongue.

“So-oftly, Harbinger, so-oftly,” said Will. “You’re as noisy as ever, I see.”

“He’s incorrigible,” replied the Squire. “Put him away.”

“We shall cure him after a few more trials, sir, I hope,” rejoined the huntsman, who could never bear to have one of us destroyed.

“He should have been cured before this,” rejoined his master, “and if not removed, he will render others as bad as himself. I hate a noisy hound,” continued he, “and I’m certain no drilling will stop Harbinger from riot and babbling. There is no vice so contagious and injurious as the one he possesses and persists in; and to use further forbearance in retaining him in the pack would be most unwise. You know, last season, that after being flogged three times in one day for riot at hare, he repeated the fault whenever he had the chance and thought the whips could not get at him.”

“He’s to go, then, sir?” said Will.

“The sooner the better,” replied the Squire. “I wish to have my hounds so perfect, that if any one of them speaks in cover, you may be certain that it’s a fox, and know that he may be cheered without fear of a mistake. Unless this be the case, what pleasure can there be to me, as their master, or satisfaction to you, as their huntsman?”

Will gave no answer, and to account for the obstinate Harbinger’s fate, all I can say is, that he was led from the kennel the following day, with a coil of rope round his neck.

We now carried the drag into the cover, and Trimbush and myself acknowledged the scent. Will gave us a cheer that startled many a pigeon from her roost, and Tom Holt and Ned Adams spurred right and left, with orders to head short back every fox that made his appearance. We got up to our cub, and drove him through the cover at a slashing rate. The morning being warm, and the scent good, there was no breathing time, and the pace soon began to tell upon the family of foxes, which we were now racing in divided lots.

“How many of them are there?” inquired the Squire.

“Not less than two brace and a half, sir,” replied the huntsman.

“Very good,” rejoined his master. “Let the vixen go if she will.”

He then galloped towards Tom Holt, and just as he was about cracking his whip, a signal from the Squire stopped him.

“Come from this corner,” said he, “and let the old one go, and as soon as these hounds come out with the scent, stop them, and take them to William.”

Scarcely were the instructions given, when the vixen took advantage of the opportunity, and broke away at her best pace. The lot settled to her were stopped, and taken to the huntsman at the top of a ride, in about the middle of the cover.

Being joined in one body, we now pressed our cub most severely; and I viewed him cross two or three rides with his red rag out, in a truly sinking condition.

“This cub is very much distressed, sir,” observed the huntsman, “and if they don’t get one of the others up, for they have all dropped but this, they’ll soon run into him.”

I now heard a succession of cracks from a thong, which I knew to be Ned Adams’s.

“He’s headed a fox back,” said Trimbush, exultingly, “but it isn’t our hunted one. He’s out—come along.”

A bunch of us swept from the side of the cover, and with heads up, dashed across a field, before Will was aware that we had got away.

“They’re out, by heaven!” exclaimed the huntsman. “Where can Ned be?”

“All right,” returned the Squire. “They broke from the side, and no one’s to blame.”

We carried the scent through the first hedge into a summerland, and threw up. Will, coming up, took hold of us rather hastily, and cast us down wind.

“Gently, William, gently,” said his master, reprovingly. “You appear to have forgotten the golden rule of letting them alone.”

We felt down wind for some distance, but not making it out, turned up, and as we were passing the spot where we had jumped through the hedge, a thought struck me that the cub might be skulking in the ditch on the other side. Popping my nose down, I dropped into it, and finding instantly that I was right, I rushed through the brambles, and just as he was about to spring out, I caught him across a tender part, and with one pinch he was as dead as a salt herring.

“Who-whoop!” hallooed the Squire. “Who-whoop, my beauty!”

To the envy of most of my companions, I received great praise for this kill from our master, who seemed not to know how to make enough of me on our road home.

“Yo-o, Ringwood!” cried he, throwing me a bit of biscuit from his pocket. “Yo-o, Ringwood, darling,” and then turning to Will, said, “What a mercy such a hound as that was not destroyed through my haste!”

“Ay, sir,” returned the huntsman, with a knowing shake of the head. “If we have as good, we’ve none better.”

“Thanks to my instructions,” growled Trimbush.

“Come, come,” said I, “don’t be jealous of the little praise I’m getting. You receive your share.”

“Jealous?” repeated my companion, with a proud lash of his stern, “I flatter myself that I can afford to be generous.”

Seeing, however, that he was a little annoyed at the attention I received, I said nothing more, but jogged in silence by the side of the Squire’s horse.

“By the way,” said our master, addressing Will, “in speaking of haste, let this morning be another lesson to you not to take your hounds off their noses with a sinking fox. More are lost by that than by any other mistake committed. There was every probability of your leaving your fox behind in the ditch, and then you would have said that he had headed back to cover. A fresh one would have been got up, and the error remained undiscovered. Countless foxes, booked safe to die, are changed in this manner, and escape from no other reason than from taking hounds off their noses. Remember this, William.”

The huntsman touched his cap, and the conversation dropped.