“Oh! what avails the largest gifts of heaven
When drooping health and spirits go amiss?
How tasteless then whatever can be given;
Health is the vital principle of bliss.”
“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.”