“Sure, I’d chase a hundred divils through a hundred woods for that,” said Billy Croom, slipping off his horse. “Here, Bob Mahony, take a hoult of the reins.”
“He’ll murther you!” cried the populace.
“Will he, begob?” said the whip, his lean, dark, devilish face lighting up with battle.
“Mr Croom!” came a voice. It was the voice of Con Cogan, who, assured that the police were absent, had been hanging round the tail of the proceedings like a carrion crow.
“What is it?” asked Croom.
“I can tell yiz where you’ll find ’um. What will yiz give me?”
“I’ll give you a tin poun’ note out of the hundred,” replied the huntsman, approaching close to Con.
“Then you can hand it over, for he’s in the ould oak tree widout a top to it.”
“Where’s that?”
“Sure, where would it be, but in the wood?”