“Who’d killed hisself?” asked Billy, unaccustomed to be taken literally, and nettled at the tone of the questioner.
“Mr O’Farrell—are you deaf?”
“Who’s you talkin’ to?” replied the whip, a man with one of those long, dark, narrow, devilish, fighting faces one meets with sometimes amidst the Irish sporting classes.
Before the General could reply—and well for him, perhaps—at this moment up went the cry from the stable-yard:
“Paddy’s out!”
“Paddy’s out!” yelled the throng, forgetting the disputants and surging towards the stable side of the house. “Brayvo, Paddy! Where is he? Afther him, and let’s chase him! Boys! boys! this’ll be the fun an’ all. Set the houn’s afther him—there ain’t no houn’s—afther him on fut! Crack him on the head if yiz catch him. No quarther, no quarther!—sure, he’s biled babies alive, the blackguyard! There he is, runnin’. Shan’s cotched him! No, he ain’t—he’s free. Afther him, afther him!”
A furious crowd surrounded the stable entrance, from which broke the figure of a man running.
The extraordinary fact stands, take it how you will, that the crowd who had sympathised and assisted in Mr Murphy’s escape were now, immediately on his enlargement, all against him and eager to catch him. The spirit of pity had vanished with the breaking of the bars, the spirits of pursuit and revenge broke loose, and who knows what might have happened but for Billy Croom, the whip, who, galloping in a semi-circle, faced and herded back the pursuing crowd with his devilish expression and long whip.
“Fair play!” shouted Billy, letting into the would-be hunters with his whip. “Give him two minits’ law and let him have a run for his money. Back you get, y’ divils, give him till he’s over the sunk fence—wait me word! There, he’s over! Tally ho! hark forrard!”
“Look!” cried Violet, “they are chasing him.”