This was too much to be borne, and Frank rode up red with passion; and a lot of others, including the whipper, soon followed.
“He has killed the dog!” said he. “Did you ever see such a clumsy, ignorant fool? Mr Lynch, if you’d do me the honour to stay away another day, and amuse yourself in any other way, I should be much obliged.”
“It wasn’t my fault then,” said Barry.
“Do you mean to give me the lie, sir?” replied Frank.
“The dog got under the horse’s feet. How was I to help it?”
There was a universal titter at this, which made Barry wish himself at home again, with his brandy-bottle.
“Ah! sir,” said Frank; “you’re as fit to ride a hunt as you are to do anything else which gentlemen usually do. May I trouble you to make yourself scarce? Your horse, I see, can’t carry you much farther, and if you’ll take my advice, you’ll go home, before you’re ridden over yourself. Well, Martin, is the bone broken?”
Martin had got off his horse, and was kneeling down beside the poor hurt brute. “Indeed it is, my lord, in two places. You’d better let Tony kill him; he has an awful sprain in the back, as well; he’ll niver put a foot to the ground again.”
“By heavens, that’s too bad! isn’t it Bingham? He was, out and out, the finest puppy we entered last year.”
“What can you expect,” said Bingham, “when such fellows as that come into a field? He’s as much business here as a cow in a drawing-room.”