"And I to poke into some queer-looking bags on Looney Rooney's cart two years ago," observed Darby once. "'Rabbits, you poaching villain,' I said to him. 'Whose rabbits?'
"'Don't be axin' me questions an' I'll tell ye no lies, Mister Darby,' he said, with his crooked old mouth under one ear. 'Here's half a crown to tell me whose,' I said. 'The shopman's,' he says, putting his mouth round until I thought he would have to get someone to feed him for the future through the back of his neck. 'Hee! Hee! the shopman's! Castle Brand,' says the old villain, whaling his jinnet into a trot, and he was a mile away when I realized that he had earned his half a crown."
Gheena, of course, knew nothing of this method of making money.
The scratch pack sat solemnly upon the lawn. They were now fit and in condition, yet in their hearts probably yearning for the many indifferent meals which they had picked up daily, instead of the one ample portion of meal and meat. Every woman who possessed a habit and saddle came out for the meet at Castle Freyne, and every man who could muster a horse.
Mr. Freyne had spent an anxious hour in the cellar, looking out some ginger cordial which had proved a failure, and which he meant to substitute for the usual excellent liqueurs provided for the hunting people.
"In war time they ought not to expect anything," he said fussily, as he decanted some inferior whisky into the old cut-glass decanters.
In the morning, a clear and sunshiny one, he saw the table ready in the hall before he went out, very important in peaked cap, to speak to the pack, and to proffer hospitality with the extremely whole-hearted air of the man who regrets it secretly. The offer comes quite quietly from those who delight in seeing their substance consumed.
The farmers took little mugs of liqueur coyly, coughing and wiping their mouths with a thanksgiving of "That's good entirely," or "Fine lightsome sthuff, Miss Gheena. Your good health, Miss! Your good health, Ma'am! Well now, one more, then."
Mr. Freyne watched without anxiety to see the distinct disappointment with which they would swallow the rather tired ginger cordial; but to his surprise, he saw Mr. Rooney cough with extra vigour, and hold out a withered hand for another go of that gran' little sthuff.
"And Matilda would have told me it was like water," he said genially, offering a drink to fat old O'Gorman as he pounded up upon his stout cob, leading his wife's lean mare. "Liqueur? Only the ginger cordial, or whisky and soda, or tea."