Darby looked feverishly for his hounds. Then he heard them coming.
"Get away on them, ye set of schamers," shrilled Andy's voice. "Get on to bed. Shame on ye, Grandjer an' Daisy, shame!"
"Wild as hawks they was," confided old Barty, who looked hot. "Here, there and elsewhere, an' ready to be at the clouds if they'd run along the bog for them."
Darby considered this possible.
"One cat they cot anonst to her," said Barty. "The chestnut is latherin' all over with the fear of Carty's lash, an' even the Rat is sober from chasin'."
General Brownlow removed a cigarette and said "My God!" to himself twice as he looked at the pack.
Home Ruler always led them, the relationship to a boar-hound never being quite concealed by a fox-hound's stern, with the tailless and aggressive Grandjer just behind.
The General prayed again, lifted his hat a little as if to admit air to his hair and looked at George Freyne.
"You mean to say they hunt," he jerked out. "You bought a hunting cap for this lot, George. And someone else has one, too. Three of you Masters, and, I say, Hook! Hook!"
For the General's man, riding up, also looked at the pack, and gave vent to an outburst of hideously clear laughter, which he made worse by putting up his hand to hide, as he rocked and backed away.