“Ox-fences! Then he does not know what a wall is?”
“Devil a bit; but we’ll teach him.”
“That we will,” said I, with as bitter a resolution to impart the instruction as ever schoolmaster did to whip Latin grammar into one of the great unbreeched.
“But I had better send the horses down to the Mill,” said Matthew; “we’ll draw that cover first.”
So saying, he turned towards the stable, while I sauntered alone towards the road by which I expected the huntsman. I had not walked half a mile before I heard the yelping of the dogs, and a little farther on I saw old Brackely coming along at a brisk trot, cutting the hounds on each side, and calling after the stragglers.
“Did you see my horse on the road, Brackely?” said I.
“I did, Misther Charles; and troth, I’m sorry to see him. Sure yerself knows better than to take out the Badger, the best steeple-chaser in Ireland, in such a country as this,—nothing but awkward stone-fences, and not a foot of sure ground in the whole of it.”
“I know it well, Brackely; but I have my reasons for it.”
“Well, may be you have; what cover will your honor try first?”
“They talk of the Mill,” said I; “but I’d much rather try Morran-a-Gowl.”