The Furzes, a tract of waste land bordering a big stretch of ploughed fields and arable land, was reached in twenty minutes’ walk, General Grampound walking between Dick and Violet and rigorously dividing them.
It was a splendid day for the business—one of those grey, damp days one gets only in Ireland.
The company spread itself a bit, and Shan was assailed by all sorts of suggestions and queries.
“Try the fields, Shan.”
“Try the garse bushes over beyant the rise.”
“The ould quarry hole, Shan.”
“Sure, there’s a herd of hares in the hollow beyant the scrub firs.”
“Niver you listen to thim, Shan; it’s in the Sivin Acres you ought to be tryin’.”
Meanwhile, Shan, supremely indifferent to advice and suggestions, began to draw the adjacent cover.
“I do hope they’ll find a hare,” said Miss Lestrange, whose eyes were sparkling.