"I'LL GO BAIL 'TWAS HIM THAT PICKED ME WIFE'S FASHIONABLE COCKS"
"Well, I'm told that if ye'll see a fox taking a hen or a goose, and ye'll call to him in Irish, that he'll drop it," remarked an older man to me, as we waited while Flurry and Hickey, in their capacity of butler and footman to the hounds' repast, snatched the few remaining morsels from the elder revellers and endeavoured to force them upon the deeply-reluctant young entry, who, having hunted with the innocent enthusiasm of the débutante, thought as little of the ensuing meal as the débutante thinks of supper at her first ball.
"I wonder why the deuce Michael can't get those Irish hounds," said Flurry, catching at the word and looking round. "I only have Lily here."
(Lily, I should say, was the romantic name of one of the Whiteboys.)
"I believe I seen a two-three of the white dogs running east awhile ago," said the elderly farmer, "and they yowling!"
"They're likely killing a sheep now," murmured Hickey to me.
At the same moment I chanced to look up towards the western end of the ravine, and saw what seemed to be five seagulls gliding up a rift of grass that showed green between rocks and heather.
"There are your white hounds, Flurry," I called out, "and they're hunting."