"Hullo!" replied Mr. French.
"Just a word with you."
He drew him aside.
"There's a lot of bad blood here. It's not my fault, but you know these chaps, and they have a down on you, every one of them, and they say if you follow to the scrub, they'll all stay behind. Now, don't get waxy. You know it's not my fault, but there it is."
French's eyes blazed.
"Follow you to the scrub!" said he in a loud, ringing voice. "Thank you for the hint, Dick Hennessy. Follow you with that pack of half-mounted rat-catchers! I was going to ride to the scrub to see if there was ever a fox white-livered enough to turn its tail on them, and, sure, if he did, he couldn't run for laughing. And, talking of tails," said Mr. French, turning from the master and addressing the market-place, "if the gentleman who cut off the tails of old Ryan's cows will only step forward, I'll accommodate him with my opinion of him here and now. And it's not the whip-end of my hunting-crop I'll do it with, either."
No gentleman present was at all desirous of being accommodated, for French turned the scale at fourteen stone, all muscle, and he was a match for any two men present.
He waited a moment. Then he took off his hat to Miss Grimshaw.
"I must apologise to you," he said, "for losing my temper. Let us on to Cloyne, for this is no place for a lady to be, at all."