"Yow—ow—ow!" the long harrier note towled out, soft and musical.
Mr. Freyne, greatly put out, rode away murmuring "Tally ho's!" to himself, so that onlookers should see that he was doing his part.
"There he goes!" An old dog fox, dark in colour and with a white tag to his brush, whisked out over the bank, looked back for a moment, and loped off straight through a patch of bog towards the pasture land.
"The best line. Give 'em time, will you! Easy, O'Gorman.... Steady there! Easy, George! You're the worst of the lot, nesting under your peaked cap, selling your country, man! Steady, will you!"
It took time to get the hounds on to the line, to get them settled down and cup on. Traitor and Sweetie and Spinster were given to hunting solemnly on in covert.
"Forrard! Away! Away! Away!" Barty's screech equalled that of John Peel.
Long and thrilling it rang out, echoed by soprano efforts from little Andy, blissfully waiting for the Rat to run away, and with throaty notes from Carty at the lower side of the gorse.
"Get away on forrard!" sang out George Freyne energetically to the crowd round him. There was only one good track across the bog. This permission sent several people ambling along it, wondering if the hounds would soon join them.
Mr. Keefe's effort—he had to do something for a General—was "Yoicks! Tally ho!" which he kept trying from C in alt. down to the bass G, to see which note suited his voice.
"Pretty nonsensical our leaving all the Master's work to Dillon," he muttered, and tried his part again, the lower key completely startling Miss Carrie Hourigan that she dropped her whip so that she might get to her beads under her habit.