THE LIFE OF A FOXHOUND. 149 



which proved a blank. We then drew a line 

 of small spinnies, and in one of them, at the 

 furthest end up wind, I saw two or three old 

 hounds flourish their sterns at one spot, and 

 before I could reach it, a first-seasoned one, 

 like myself, called Boaster, threw his tongue. 



" Gently, Boaster," hallooed Will, giving 

 an admonitory crack of the whip. " Gently, 

 Boaster." 



Upon pushing my nose among the group, I 

 inhaled a slight scent of the animal; but it 

 was very faint. 



** It's a stale drag,' said Trimbush, " and 

 he may be twenty miles away by this time. 

 Who opened on it? " asked he. 



" Boaster," replied I, fearing that he 

 might think me guilty of the puppy-like 

 deed. 



** Then I tell you this, youngster," re- 

 joined the old hound, *' if you're so free with 

 your tongue, you'll have reason to wish, some 

 day, that it had been cut out at your birth." 



" But it was the right scent," expostulated 

 Boaster ; ' ' and how could I tell if it was stale 

 or not? " 



'* Then your nose is not worth a damn," 

 returned Trimbush, passionately. "At any 



