“Bob!” cried his wife, as he took his seat.
“What is it?” asked Mr Mahony, taking the reins.
“Won’t you be afther givin’ your face the lick of a tow’l?”
“It’s only the tarriers,” replied Mr Mahony; “sure, I’m clane enough for them. Come up wid you, Norah.”
Norah, the small donkey, whose ears had been cocking this way and that, picked up her feet, and the vehicle, which was not much bigger than a costermonger’s barrow, started.
At this moment, also, Shan and the dogs and the crowd were getting into motion, making down the road for Glen Druid gates.
“Hulloo! hulloo! hulloo!” cried Mr Mahony, as he rattled up behind in the cart, “where are yiz off to?”
“The meet of the baygles,” replied twenty voices; whilst Shan, who had heard his enemy’s voice, stalked on, surrounded by his dogs, his old battered hunting horn in one hand, and his whip under his arm.
“And where are they goin’ to meet?” asked Mr Mahony.
“Glen Druid gate,” replied the camp followers. “There’s a Mimber of Parlymint comin’, and all the quality from the Big House.”