232 THE FOX 



wasted. By this time it has dawned on old Melody 

 that she never really smelt fox after the gateway, and 

 she goes back with perhaps a daughter or son who 

 always keeps her company in the front. The whipper- 

 in is half inclined to rate them on, but seeing which 

 hound it is, and knowing her to be a trusted favourite, 

 lets her alone. Shrill, high, eager, comes the note, 

 ' Down under the wall, you idiots ! here ! here ! here ! ' 

 To that well-known tongue they fly at once, and the 

 pack streams off, but soon has to hunt, for the fox 

 has gone into an open wood, and having taken a 

 wide sweep, he is once more on the way to his refuge 

 with a good start. Ten minutes or more have been 

 wasted (or gained, according to the point of view) in 

 working out the half-mile, so that he is now comfort- 

 ably in advance. He has rested a few moments, not 

 long enough to get stiff. He has once more caught 

 his wind ; true, his brush is clogged, and his pace has 

 lost something of its early elasticity, but he is still 

 able to plod on steadily. Just then a most delicious 

 odour reaches his nostrils : there is a heap of rotting 

 fish manure in the field. Though time is precious 

 he cannot resist a roll in it. He finds the odour 

 which causes his pursuers to blow their noses, draw 

 out their flasks, and light cigars, stimulating and 

 refreshing. Moreover it puzzles the hounds terribly. 



