"Then how the mischief did he beat the big bay?" was what Darby uttered in astonishment.
James looked round cautiously. "Well, if one dun horse did not bate him," he said, "isn't there a book says 'All's fair in love and war,' sir—another did. The writing only said Dun, Mister Darby, there was no name. An' if I paid two hundred, he wouldn't risk it for less, for me cousin's little horse Custodian that won at Galway last year, and was second in Punchestown. Didn't James Rourke's dun horse win the race?"
"You—scoundrel!" said Darby, after a pause filled by uncontrolled laugh, he looked towards the stables.
"Oh, he went back the second next night," said James softly. "We walked him all the ways to Cortra. Andy did, an' it dark! I borryed Andy off Barty. I could not have lived in the place, Mr. Dillon, with all his boastin' if I either went out, an' was doing full-back all the time to his forward, or if I did not come out at all. An' for the twinty pound Janey an' meself sent it to the Belgums. Since it came from cheatin' soldiers, it is gone to thim that soldiers cheated."
An inkling of what had happened leaked out, as it was bound to, so delighting O'Dea that the banns were immediately put up, the old man giving Janey two extra cows because a certain young man deserved to get on in life.
Also, when a month later Darby drove up to present the couple with a silver sugar-basin and tea-spoons, he found Mr. Dan Rooney walking arm in arm with James Rourke, as they discussed the terms of sale of That's the Boy to the owner of Custodian, who realized that the bay had put in a really fine performance in running as he did—half fit, and never spared.
"To have been bate by that that niver could have bate me sickened me," said Rooney, beaming; "but to keep Custodian beltin' it for three mile, didn't I know me bay horse was a bit of exthry?"
CHAPTER XII
General Brownlow returned the grey horse, accompanied by a terse letter to his brother-in-law, couched in terms which made George Freyne feel that he was almost lucky to have escaped a drumhead court-martial.
"Lay down with our fattest commanding officer in the barrack square," wrote Brownlow, "and again with a young subaltern ordered to gallop with a message. Folds up like a deck-chair when he feels inclined, and I've got you out of it with difficulty by trying him for another week myself."