The next morning was dull and grey, with not a trace of frost—an ideal hunting morning.

The meet was fixed for nine o’clock at the cross-roads, by the village of Castle Knock; and at eight you might have seen Bob Mahony, the sweep, clattering down the main street of Castle Knock in his donkey-cart, his face washed and shining, so that you would never have known he was a sweep, only for the traces of soot round the back of his ears and the nape of his neck that the towel had failed to reach.

He always turned out for a meet of the hounds. His donkey was a tiny mouse-coloured beast, the quickest and the wickedest donkey in the county. “Game as a tarrier,” to use Bob’s expression, “and not to hold or bind when she hears the hounds giving lip.”

He drew up at the sign-post that is set at the cross-roads, and he had scarcely got down to put the nose-bag on the donkey, to keep her “aisy,” when over the fields, from the direction of Tullagh, taking the low stone walls in his strides, came Billy the Buck.

A meet of the hounds without Billy the Buck would have been a function robbed of most of its picturesqueness and colour.

He was a dark gipsy-looking personage, in an old red waistcoat with tarnished brass buttons; he lived in hayricks and such places, caught rats, sold rabbit skins, trapped moles, did a bit of petty thieving when times were bad, and a bit of poaching whenever he could get the chance. He followed the hounds on foot, and was always in at the death, for he could run like a hare and jump like a horse. He was “near seven fut”—that is to say, he measured six feet six, and, to use the local expression, he was as “thin as a barber’s pole.”

“The top of the marnin’ to you!” cried Billy, vaulting over the low stone wall separating the road from the fields.

“Oh, it’s yourself, is it?” said the sweep. “And what’s the news?”

“There’s an ould grey dog-fox in Rafferty’s Clump,” cried Billy. “He’s the wan that took earth at Kilgobbin last year, whin Mr Moriarty broke his back over the sunk fence beyant Highberries Barn; I knowed him by the ring on his tail and the thrap mark on his lift shoulder, where the hair’s grown a different colour. ‘Good-marnin,’ says I, whin I see him ten minits ago. ‘It’s you that’ll be sweepin’ the country-side with your brush before you’re an hour older, or me names not Billy the Buck,’ I says. And with that he livels it at me like a gun, and into the bushes he pops, with his eye over his shoulder at me. Who’s this comin’ on the big brown horse?”

“One of the quality from the Big House,” replied the sweep, as Mr Fanshawe, in spotless pink and mounted on a superb hunter, turned the corner of the road from Glen Druid.

After Mr Fanshawe, and some way behind, came the governess-cart driven by Patsy.

Now along all the four roads horsemen could be seen converging towards Castle Knock cross. All sorts of nags, good, bad, and indifferent, ridden by all sorts of people, small farmers, sporting squireens from Tullagh, a sprinkling of gentry, so that in five minutes the space of the cross-roads presented a lively enough picture; and you could scarcely hear yourself speak, for every one seemed to know every one else, and the shouting and the laughing was enough to have raised the old malefactors who for centuries had been buried at the cross-roads with stakes through their middles.

Suddenly the talking and the laughing ceased, for away down the road leading to Kilgobbin might be seen the hounds coming along like a moving furze bush and the pink-clad figures of the master and the two whips.

“Here they come!” cried Patsy, who had been endeavouring to keep the hog-maned pony from the vicious attentions of the sweep’s donkey. “Misther Mahony, will yiz keep your dunkey to yourself, for he’s tryin’ to bite the pony’s nose off. Miss Doris, sit back a bit and trim the cart, for it’s kickin’ us in flinders he’ll be if the shoulderstrap presses too hard on him.”

Patsy was well able to drive; for the matter of that, he could sit a horse bare-backed that many a good horseman could not sit saddled. It was the proudest moment of his life to be driving Lord Gawdor and Miss Doris (Selina was not of the party, having developed a snuffling cold during the night); and his satisfaction was not decreased by the fact that Widow Finnegan’s son was present.

The latter was leaning against the sign-post, and every now and then his evil eye would fall upon the governess-cart and Patsy, and he would address some remark to the two boys he was talking to, boys as ill-looking as himself, and then the three would burst into a guffaw of laughter.

“It’ll be a bad year this for the crops, Mr Rafferty,” cried Patsy, addressing a stout farmer on a skew-bald nag a few yards away, and speaking in such a loud voice that every one could hear him, Micky Finnegan included.

“And how’s that, Patsy?” asked the farmer, touching his hat to Lord Gawdor and Doris.

“All the scarecrows have struck bisiness,” said Patsy, nodding towards Micky and his followers. “Not that it matters much, for the crows had ceased to be afeared of them.”

“Dustpans and brums!” yelled Micky to an acquaintance across the road. “Mr Moriarty, will you lend me a dustpan and brum?”

“Faith,” said Patsy, still addressing Mr Rafferty, “it’s the first time in me life I’ve ever heard rubbish cryin’ out for a broom. Sure, it’s late in the day he is, for he ought to have been swep’ up long ago.”

“Patsy,” said Mr Fanshawe, ranging up beside the governess-cart, “what are you doing? Remember who you are driving.”

“Don’t stop him, Mr Fanshawe,” said little Lord Gawdor; “he’s always giving that long boy no end beans—cheeky beast!”

All further discussion was cut short by the arrival of the hounds, and the master, Mr O’Farrell of Tuffnell Park.

The whips consulted for a moment with the master, and then the second whip conferred with Billy the Buck. The result of this conference was that the master resolved to draw Rafferty’s Clump, where the old grey dog-fox with the ring on his tail was supposed to be.

Rafferty’s Clump is a huge spinny; it forms part of the Galtee woods. There are not many trees in the Galtee woods; it is a great space of barren country, with here and there an isolated copse. The horsemen moved off down the road, following the master and the hounds, and the governess-cart and donkey-cart followed in the crush.

“Mind your manners!” cried Patsy, as the sweep’s donkey-cart jostled the “tub,” as the governess-cart was sometimes called. “There’s no hurry; they won’t be needin’ you yet awhile to frighten the fox out of the wood.”

“Dunkeys is particular fond of carrots,” replied Mr Mahony, making veiled reference to Patsy’s unfortunate head.

“Faith, then,” said Patsy, “if I’d known that, I’d have brought some in me pocket for the pair of yiz.”

The procession paused whilst a gate was opened, and then the whole field streamed over a stretch of broken country, in the direction of Rafferty’s Clump.

“Billy,” cried Patsy to Billy the Buck, who was trotting beside the “tub,” touching his hat now and then whenever he caught Lord Gawdor’s eye, “is there a fox in the clump?”

“Ould dog-fox, grey as a badger,” replied Billy, “thrap-marked on the shoulder, wid a ring to his tail.”

“White ring?” asked Patsy.

“Crame-white.”

“I know him as well as me own brother,” said Patsy. “Mr Fanshawe, sir.”

“What is it?” asked Mr Fanshawe, who was riding close to them.

“It’s the ould fox that broke Mr Moriarty’s back. If he breaks to the aist he’ll be off to Kilgobbin, and mind the sunk fence beyant Highberries Barn; if he breaks to the west the divil won’t stop him till he gets to the big stone wall beyant the river. He’ll have to strike up it half a mile to get to the hole in it, and thin he’ll strike across the twinty acres, sure, for it’s the earths in the Tullagh woods he’ll be makin’ for; so I’ll give yiz the word, and if you hear me shout ‘Tullagh,’ send your man wid your second horse to the Tullagh cross-roads to meet you.”

“You seem to know the lie of the country, Patsy,” said Mr. Fanshawe, who had drawn rein, and was sitting listening to the querulous yapping of the dogs busy in the wood.

“I’ve follied the hounds ever since I was the height of me knee,” replied Patsy. Then: “Hurroo! hurroo! he’s broke away to the west. ‘Tullagh’ whoop. Hould tight, Miss Doris, and we’ll follow thim to the rise.”

The fox had broken away to the west, going, to use Patsy’s expression, like a railway train.

Doris had need to follow Patsy’s advice and “hould tight,” for the “tub” was racing the donkey-cart for the rise, an elevation from which the whole sweep of the country round could be viewed.

“There they go!” cried Patsy, as Punch, the pony, drew up puffing and blowing and all of a lather. “Look, Mr Robert! Sure, it makes me ache in the legs to see them and not to be wid them.”

The field had spread out like a fan. One horse having stepped in a rabbit hole and flung its rider, was following the chase at its own sweet will with bridle streaming and empty saddle.

Away from the ruck and leading by a good distance, one could see the master, the whips and Mr Fanshawe; behind these, but not so far behind, a thing like an animated flail; this was Billy the Buck, who, not being afraid of rabbit’s holes, and knowing the boggy bits and other pitfalls, managed to hold his own, and would manage so to do till the end of the day. After him came the other mounted folk, and after them, at the heel of the hunt, all sorts of running ragamuffins.

The “tub” and Mr. Mahony’s donkey-cart being the only wheeled vehicles, were alone in their glory on the rise.

Mr Mahony was standing up in his cart making audible comments on the run, a sooty pipe an inch long in his mouth.

“He’s doubled!” suddenly yelled Patsy. “He’s afear’d of the river; it’s Killbegg he’ll be making for, and we’ll cotch a sight of them on the road if we can get there in time.”

“I’ll race yiz to the gate,” cried Mr Mahony, sitting down plump in his cart and plucking up the head of his donkey whilst he hit it a whack with the blackthorn stick he carried for a whip. “A hundred to one I get there first, and the divil take the hindmost. Hurroo!”

“Hurroo!” yelled Patsy. “Go it, Punch! Hould tight, Miss Doris—don’t be afear’d—we’ll be all right if the wheels hold and he doesn’t stick his fut in a rabbit hole. Hi! hi! hi! Sut-bags! drive fair, and don’t be crowdin’ me—we’re over—we ain’t—Holy Mary! the springs are goin’—hould on by your teeth, we’re comin’ to a trinch!”

Now, along the Tullagh road at this minute was coming a waggonette containing the first contingent of the guests from England, arrived only an hour ago at Tullagh station, and on their way to Glen Druid.

There were four people in the waggonette. General Grampound, an old gentleman, with a white moustache and a red face, sat in one corner. One could tell at a glance what he was; Nature and his profession had labelled him plainly: “Old East Indian general—peppery—this side up—don’t touch.”

By General Grampound sat his ward, Violet Lestrange, a pretty girl, with dark hair and blue eyes.

Opposite General Grampound sat Uncle Molyneux, a very aristocratic-looking, middle-aged person who wore an eye-glass and a waxed moustache.

Opposite Violet Lestrange sat Mr Boxall, the Member of Parliament, who looked as if he had swallowed a Blue Book and had not finished digesting it.

Mr Boxall had a large white face, but the most peculiar thing about him was his eyes. The pupil of his left eye was about twice the size of the pupil of the right eye. It had also a cold and steadfast stare, for it was made of glass. This glass eye of Mr Boxall’s was what is called an open secret; every one knew of it, but no one mentioned it openly. On account of it, old ladies, when they spoke of him, called him “poor Mr Boxall.”

The stone wall of the road was so low that the race between the donkey-cart and the “tub” could be clearly seen by the people in the waggonette.

“Why, God bless my soul!” said Uncle Molyneux, screwing his eye-glass tight in his eye and half standing up so as to get a better view, “I believe it is my nephew and niece.”

“They’ll be over!” cried Violet Lestrange, who was also half standing up. “Look! look! the pony is running away.”

“Who’s that ruffian in the donkey-cart?” cried General Grampound. “They are racing him—the pony has not run away; I see the boy beating it with the whip. Hi, you, sir! you in the donkey-cart—I’ll give you in charge of the police.”

“It’s little he cares about the police,” said the driver of the waggonette, who was also following the race with interested eyes. “That’s Bob Mahony, the chimbly sweep, and he’s been to the meet of the houn’s, for his face is washed. Look! he’s gainin’ on the pony carridge—Ten to one on the dunkey!—ten to one on the dunkey! Lather her, Bob, lather her! They’re makin’ who’ll get through the gate first. He’ll do it! He won’t! He will, be jabers—Hurroo!”

The donkey-cart having outstripped the “tub,” was passing through the gate triumphant and victorious, when the right wheel caught the post and over it went, sweep, cart, donkey and all.

The driver of the waggonette drew the vehicle up and got down, heedless of General Grampound or anything else, and approached the wreckage on the road.

“Are yiz kilt, Bob Mahony?” asked the driver, bending down with his hands on his knees and staring at the prostrate figure in the road.

“Faith, I dunno yet,” said the figure, sitting up and putting one hand to the top of its head. “Me head’s on, but I seems to have left me intellicts in the field beyant.”

“Feel your legs to see if they’re bruck,” commanded the driver.

“Legs is all right,” replied Mr Mahony, feeling them contemplatively; “back’s all right, and arums. I’ll be on me pins again in a minit when the wheels has done spinnin’ in me head.”

“Right y’are,” replied the other. “I’ll be after getting the dunkey on her feet.”

General Grampound, furious with anger at being stopped, had been aiming himself like a gun now at Mr Mahony, now at the driver, now at the donkey lying on its side on the road, but he had withheld his fire. Patsy’s red head (he had lost his cap) as the “tub” made its appearance in the gateway, served as a target, however, and he let fly.

“Hi, you, boy,” cried General Grampound, “you, boy, with the red head—how dare you disgrace your livery, sir, racing sweeps in donkey-carts and blocking my road!”

One might have fancied that the road, the stone walls, the earth and the sky were the property of General Grampound. As a matter of fact, he had less to do with the matter than Uncle Molyneux; but Uncle Molyneux was a placid, and easygoing person, who if the sky had fallen would not have been much put out, as long as the pieces did not hit him, and he was quite content to sit still, observe matters through his eye-glass, and let General Grampound do the shouting.

“Why, it’s Uncle Molyneux!” cried Lord Gawdor, as Patsy engineered the “tub” through the gate, avoiding the donkey and cart, which were now on their respective legs and wheels.

Uncle Molyneux nodded; but before he could speak, Miss Lestrange, who had got out of the waggonette, approached the “tub.”

“How you have grown, Doris! and you too, Bob. Don’t you remember me? What a jolly little cart; have you room for me? I think I will drive the rest of the way with you. It’s not far from here, is it?”

“Only a mile or two,” replied Doris. “Yes; do get in, there’s lots of room; isn’t there, Patsy?”

“Hapes, miss,” replied Patsy, who was smouldering with anger at the General’s reference to the colour of his head.

“But is it safe?” asked Mr Boxall, who had also descended from the waggonette. “Think, my dear Miss Lestrange, if there was another accident! Would it not be safer for me to drive you if you are determined to go in this vehicle? The children could find accommodation in the waggonette.”

“No, thanks,” said Miss Lestrange; “it is just the children I want to talk to.”

“Come on, Boxall,” cried the General; “we can’t stick here all day. Let her do what she likes—always will have her own way. Drive on.”

The waggonette and its contents drove on, and Miss Lestrange got into the “tub.”

Just as they were starting a big closed carriage drove by following in the direction of the waggonette. It contained Lady Molyneux, her maid, her pug dogs, and her jewel-case.

“We’ve been to the meet of the hounds,” explained Lord Gawdor. “That was Bob Mahony, the sweep, we were racing. He beat us, but he wouldn’t have beat us if he’d driven fair. I say, who was that gentleman with the big white face who wanted to drive you?”

“That was Mr Boxall,” said Miss Lestrange.

“He seemed awfully sweet on you,” said Lord Gawdor. “What’s the matter with his eyes?”

“I don’t know,” replied Miss Lestrange, blushing, “He’s—a Member of Parliament.”

“Oh, I remember,” said Lord Gawdor. “I heard granny telling Mrs O’Farrell that poor Mr Boxall was coming on a visit, and that he’d got a glass eye. Miss Lestrange!”

“Yes, Bob?”

“Which of his eyes is glass?”

“I don’t know,” replied Miss Lestrange. “Let us talk of something else. Doris, how is your grandmother?”

“She’s all right,” said Doris. “Just the same. Bob kicked his football through the window the other day, and she kept us prisoners in the schoolroom two days, and we wouldn’t have been let go to the meet this morning only for Mr Fanshawe.”

“Who is Mr Fanshawe?” asked Miss Lestrange, with a sudden interest in her voice.

“Jolliest chap you ever met,” cut in Lord Gawdor; “isn’t he, Doris?”

“Rather!” replied Doris.

“And he gave Patsy half a crown,” went on Lord Gawdor—“this is Patsy driving—He’s off hunting this morning. My! can’t he ride? And hasn’t he some fine horses?”

“What is he like?” asked Miss Lestrange.

“I dunno,” replied Lord Gawdor.

“He’s awfully good-looking,” said Doris.

“He’s a rale gintleman,” said Patsy. “Beg your pardon, miss, for speakin’.”

“Not at all,” said Miss Lestrange, smiling sweetly on Patsy. On getting into the “tub” she had looked tired from her journey and bored, but she was now full of spirits and animation. “So your name is Patsy, is it?”

“Patsy Rooney, miss,” replied that individual, as he turned the “tub” in at the gates. “I’m the page-boy, and clanes the knives and the boots, but I’m looking afther Mr Fanshawe now, for his man sprained his fut and had to be left behind: and it’s only this marnin’ Mr Fanshawe says to me, ‘Patsy, you’re a jewel at cleanin’ boots and brushing clothes, and if you continy in the grace of God,’ he says, ‘it’s a valley I’ll make of you before you’re much older,’ and, bedad,” finished Patsy, hitting the pony a “skelp” with the whip, “I’d sooner sarve him for tuppence a week than any other gintleman in the country for a pound.”