Patsy was well able to drive; for the matter of that, he could sit a horse bare-backed that many a good horseman could not sit saddled. It was the proudest moment of his life to be driving Lord Gawdor and Miss Doris (Selina was not of the party, having developed a snuffling cold during the night); and his satisfaction was not decreased by the fact that Widow Finnegan’s son was present.
The latter was leaning against the sign-post, and every now and then his evil eye would fall upon the governess-cart and Patsy, and he would address some remark to the two boys he was talking to, boys as ill-looking as himself, and then the three would burst into a guffaw of laughter.
“It’ll be a bad year this for the crops, Mr Rafferty,” cried Patsy, addressing a stout farmer on a skew-bald nag a few yards away, and speaking in such a loud voice that every one could hear him, Micky Finnegan included.
“And how’s that, Patsy?” asked the farmer, touching his hat to Lord Gawdor and Doris.
“All the scarecrows have struck bisiness,” said Patsy, nodding towards Micky and his followers. “Not that it matters much, for the crows had ceased to be afeared of them.”
“Dustpans and brums!” yelled Micky to an acquaintance across the road. “Mr Moriarty, will you lend me a dustpan and brum?”
“Faith,” said Patsy, still addressing Mr Rafferty, “it’s the first time in me life I’ve ever heard rubbish cryin’ out for a broom. Sure, it’s late in the day he is, for he ought to have been swep’ up long ago.”
“Patsy,” said Mr Fanshawe, ranging up beside the governess-cart, “what are you doing? Remember who you are driving.”
“Don’t stop him, Mr Fanshawe,” said little Lord Gawdor; “he’s always giving that long boy no end beans—cheeky beast!”
All further discussion was cut short by the arrival of the hounds, and the master, Mr O’Farrell of Tuffnell Park.