"'Tis a stag to-day, be the newspapers," I says, "but the dear knows they'll not cotch him this month, be must be gone by this half-hour, and the breath is from them, their tongues is hangin' out a yard," I says.
'Twas at that moment the Blessed Saints gave me wisdom.
"Mikeen," I says, "drag the mascot out before them; we'll see sport this day."
"Herself——" he begins.
"Hoult your whisht," says I, "and come on." With that we dragged me bowld goat out before the dogs and let go the chain.
The dogs sniffed up the strong blast of ody-koloney and let a yowl out of them like all the banshees in the nation of Ireland, and the billy legged it for his life—small blame to him!
Meself and Mikeen climbed a double to see the sport.
"They have him," says Mikeen. "They have not," says I; "the crature howlds them by two lengths."
"He has doubled on them," says Mikeen; "he is as sly as a Jew."
"He is forninst the rabbit holes now," I says. "I thank the howly Saints he cannot burrow."