The populace tittered. They thought Con was “having” the whip, otherwise such base treachery would have condemned Mr Cogan to a speedy and literal downfall.
“What part of the wood?” demanded the whip.
“Two hundred yards, maybe, to the lift of the drive, before you rache the turnin’ to the Druids’ Althar.”
“He’s gave Paddy away!” cried the onlookers, who perceived from the exact directions that there was no joking in the matter. “He’s bethrayed him—oh, the baste!”
“Lave him to me,” said Croom, as disgusted as the rest, but still determined to use Mr Cogan.
“Now, then, you holy scarecrow, lay on to the sint, into the wood wid you before me.”
They were a picture. The lean, dark-faced whip all fight and energy; Con, with his brigand’s appearance, and his face of an ideal stage-robber, wilting before the other.
“Lay on!” cried the huntsman.
“Let up!” cried Con. “Lave me be—who are you afther talking to? Help! Mary! Moses!”
The thong of the whip curled round his legs. Then, whip in one hand and grasping the collar of Con’s old coat in the other, Croom ran the villain in amidst the trees, and they were lost to sight.