"Blur a' nouns, zur!" bawled the Irish hostler, as he came trotting up to the front veranda, where Triangle and Jingo were discussing the transportation of small-pox—
"Blur a' nouns—the dog's loose!"
"Curse the dog!" said the Major.
"But, zur, it's raving mad, he is!"
"Mad! my dog?" cries Triangle.
"A mad dog, too!" exclaims the Major, in horror.
"O, too bad—horrible—wish I'd never seen"——
"Get your gun, quick—come on!" cried the Major.
"But, my dear Major, my gun's broke all to smash. O! that I had shot the blasted brute instead of breaking my gun!"
"Come on—never mind—seize a club, fork, or anything, and hunt around for the cursed dog. He'll bite some of our people, horses, or cattle." And away ran the Major, with a bit of stick about the size of a fence-rail. Paddy made himself scarce, and Triangle, in agony, flew around to hunt up his daughter, whom they found asleep in a summer-house.