“Won’t you be afther givin’ your face the lick of a tow’l?”
“It’s only the tarriers,” replied Mr. Mahony; “sure, I’m clane enough for them. Come up wid you, Norah.”
Norah, the small donkey, whose ears had been cocking this way and that, picked up her feet, and the vehicle, which was not much bigger than a costermonger’s barrow, started.
At this moment, also, Shan and the dogs and the crowd were getting into motion, making down the road for Glen Druid gates.
“Hulloo! hulloo! hulloo!” cried Mr. Mahony, as he rattled up behind in the cart, “where are yiz off to?”
“The meet of the baygles,” replied twenty voices; whilst Shan, who had heard his enemy’s voice, stalked on, surrounded by his dogs, his old, battered hunting horn in one hand, and his whip under his arm.
“And where are they going to meet?” asked Mr. Mahony.
“Glen Druid gate,” replied the camp followers. “There’s a Mimber of Parlymint comin’, and all the quality from the Big House.”
“Faith,” said Mr. Mahony, “I thought there was somethin’ up, for, by the look of Shan, as he passed me house this mornin’, I thought he’d swallowed the Lord Liftinant, Crown jew’ls and all. Hulloo! hulloo! hulloo! make way for me carridge! Who are you crowdin’? Don’t you know the Earl of Leinsther when y’ see him? Out of the way, or I’ll call me futman to disparse yiz.”