Shan turned at the sound, and his rage exploded.
“Who are yiz hittin’?” cried Shan.
“I’m larnin’ your dogs manners,” replied Bob.
The huntsman surveyed the sweep, the cart, the soot bags, and the donkey.
“I beg your pardin’,” said he, touching his hat, “I didn’t see you at first for the sut.”
Mr Mahony took his short pipe from his mouth, put it back upside down, shoved his old hat further back on his head, rested his elbows on his knees and contemplated Shan.
“But it’s glad I am,” went on Shan, “you’ve come to the meet and brought a mimber of the family with you.”
Fate was against Bob Mahony, for at that moment Norah, scenting another of her species in a field near by, curled her lip, stiffened her legs, projected her head, rolled her eyes, and “let a bray out of her” that almost drowned the howls of laughter from the exulting mob.
But Shan Finucane did not stir a muscle of his face, and Bob Mahony’s fixed sneer did not flicker or waver.
“Don’t mention it, mum,” said Shan, taking off his old cap when the last awful, rasping, despairing note of the bray had died down into silence.