“Because,” proceeded his lordship, “to go hunt a tory without bloodhounds is like looking for your grandmother's needle in a bottle of straw.”
“I am thankful to your lordship for that hint,” replied Harry Woodward; “but the truth is, I have been almost since my infancy out of the country, and am consequently, very ignorant of its usages.”
“What particular tory are you going to hunt?'”
“A fellow named Shawn-na-Middogue.”
“Ah! Shawn-na-Middogue, your mother's victim? Don't hunt him. If you're wise you'll keep your distance from that young fellow. I tell you, Mr. Woodward, there will be more danger to yourself in the hunt than there will be to him. It's a well-known fact that it was your mother's severity to his family that made a tory of him; and, as I said before, I would strongly recommend you to avoid him. How many bloodhounds have you got?”
“Why, I think we can muster half a dozen.”
“Ay, but do you know how to hunt them?”
“Not exactly; but I suppose we may depend upon the instinct of the dogs.”