“Hare!” said the General, “I don’t believe there’s one in the county. Every one of these blessed small tenants owns a gun of some sort, and they’re poachers to a man.”
At that instant, as if to give him the lie, came a “view halloa!” from Micky Finnegan away to the right where the fence divided the scrub land from the fields.
In a second Rafter, followed by the pack, Shan, and all the field was making towards the sound.
“Run!” cried Dicky, as he started after them, followed by Violet and General Grampound, who, despite the fact that his wind wasn’t “what it used to be,” managed to keep up with them.
The dogs were just laid on, and every hound gave tongue as they streamed through the fence and over the ploughed land followed by Shan, who took the fence like a grasshopper, and the yelling field.
Over the sound of the dogs, over the laughter and shouts, over everything came Shan’s “Forrard! forrard! forrard! Hi up, y’ divils!”
“Over you go!” cried Dicky, who had taken the fence at a jump, whilst Violet, scrambling over, nearly tumbled into his arms. “It’s only a short bit of plough, and there’s grass fields beyond.”
“Look at thim!” cried Patsy, who, with the children, was standing up in the “tub.” “Look at the ould Gineral getting over the fence; he’s callin’ thim to stop! Brayvo, Mr Fanshawe! Look at the ould Gineral—look at him goin’ over the plough—they’re through the hedge beyant. He’s afther thim—he’s through! He ain’t—he’s slipped and over on his back. Hurroo! brayvo, Mr Fanshawe! They’re half over the grass field.”
“Run!” cried Dicky, as he dragged his companion through an opening in the hedge, dividing the plough from the grass lands.
“Oh, Dicky,” gasped the girl, half dead with running, and laughing at the same time, “listen to him!”