I recollect hearing, as I lay that day in a piece of thick gorse, the following proof of the patience and good temper of Sawyer, the whipper-in. The hounds had followed a fox into a wood close by, having hunted him some time in close pursuit, when a jovial sort of person, who constantly rode after these hounds, saw a fresh fox—being no other than myself—and began hallooing to the full extent of his voice. Sawyer immediately rode up to him, and addressed him thus: “Now, pray Mr. W——, don’t ye halloo so, don’t ye halloo; ’tis a fresh fox!” But still the person continued as loud as ever. The same entreaty was repeated again and again, and still he would halloo. At last Sawyer gave it up as a forlorn hope, and left him, just remarking, “Well, I never see’d such an uneasy creature as you be in all my life.” He then followed the pack, which had by that time left the cover in pursuit of the first fox, which they had been running all the time. Yet we foxes have reason to know that a more determined and ardent enemy to us in the shape of a whipper-in than this man never lived. It fortunately happened for me that the weather now became very dry; for I was not unfrequently disturbed by these hounds, and though the scent was not very good in this plough country, I was at times much more distressed after being hunted than on former occasions, and was often nearly beaten; for it is not in our nature to be moving in the heat of the day, and not being so much inured to it as the hounds were, I expected to fall a prey to their able huntsman, who, when his hounds would not hunt me, appeared to know where I was gone to; and very often, when all was silent and I thought myself safe, brought them on without hunting, and crossing the line I had come; so that against him and his clever whipper-in, I had, notwithstanding the dry weather, enough to do to save my life.
On one occasion I had a most severe day’s work, for the scent was remarkably good. I was lying quiet in my kennel, very unwilling to move, though I heard the hounds running a fox close to me, which they very soon lost, as they could not, or would not, hunt it. I thought this very strange, as by the use of my nose I knew it to be a good scenting day. It turned out that the fox was a vixen, which had just laid up her cubs; the effect of which generally is, that the scent becomes so different that hounds, old ones particularly, appear to know it, as if by intuition, and will not hunt it. As I had not had more notice of their approach I thought my best chance of escape was to be perfectly still,—a plan often adopted by me since on a good scenting day; but it was of no use, for the huntsman almost rode upon me in drawing the cover, and I was obliged to fly when the hounds were close to me; however, after a long run, I most luckily escaped.