“His legs is all right,” murmured the sympathetic crowd, as the injured one departed still with his handkerchief to his face, “and his arums. Sure, it’s the mercy and all his neck wasn’t bruck.”
“Did yiz see the skelp Bob landed him?”
“Musha! Sure, I thought it would have sent his head flying into Athy, like a gulf ball.”
Patsy, who had pulled the governess-cart up, rose to his feet; his sharp eye had caught sight of something lying on the road.
“Hould the reins a moment, Mr Robert,” said he, putting them into Lord Gawdor’s hands. He hopped out of the cart, picked up the object in the road, whatever it was, put it in his trousers pocket, and then stood holding the pony’s head; whilst the meet, from which Bob Mahony had departed as swiftly as his donkey could trot, turned its attention to the business of the day, and Shan, collecting his dogs, declared his intention of drawing the Furzes.
“Was that a marble you picked up, Patsy?” asked Lord Gawdor, as the red-headed one, hearing Shan’s declaration, climbed into the “tub” again and took the reins.
Patsy grinned.
“Be sittin’ still, now,” said he, hitting the pony a flick with the whip, “or the ould General will, maybe, be sendin’ us back. It’s the Furzes Shan’s goin’ to draw.”
“But was it a marble, Patsy?”
“Look at Shan and the dogs and ould Rafter cockin’ his tail,” said Patsy. “It’s the fine sport we’ll be havin’ if there’s a hare in the Furzes.”