“Thatsy me darlins! Thatsy-atsy-atsy! Turrn him out, Woodbine! Hi, Waurior, good hound!”
I felt inclined to laugh, but as no one else seemed amused, I refrained and waited for further developments. Presently, with a few words to Willy, Mr. O’Neill put spurs to his big bay and galloped off. In a moment or two, Miss O’Neill, without further ceremony, followed her brother to the other end of the covert, and Willy and I remained with about twenty other riders on the road.
“See here!” he said in low, excited tones. “You keep close to me. Old Dennehy’s got a beastly trick of slipping away with his hounds directly they find, and making fools of the whole field, leaving them the wrong side of the covert. But I think we’re in a good place here. Whisht! wasn’t that a hound speaking? Come on this way.”
We set off down the road helter-skelter after Mr. O’Neill and Connie, but were stopped by an excited rush of country boys with shouts of, “He’s gone aisht! He’s broke the far side!” and at the same instant Mr. and Miss O’Neill came pounding down a ride out of the covert.
“It’s just as I thought; Dennehy’s gone away with the hounds by himself,” called out Mr. O’Neill. “A country fellow saw the fox heading for Lick, and Dennehy all alone with the hounds, going like mad!”
At this juncture I think it better not to record Willy’s remarks.
“It’s all right, Nugent,” said Connie. “I know a way over the hill lower down.”
“Don’t mind her, Theo,” said Willy in my ear; “just you stick to me.”
We had galloped past the eastern bound of the wood, and as he spoke he turned his horse and jumped the fence on the right of the road. Blackthorn followed of his own accord, and I found that an Irish bank did not feel as difficult as it looked.