“I believe he’s done his best for you,” said Barty, dubiously; “but the way he’s situated, he doesn’t like to come out too strong one way or the other.”

“Quite right too; I’m a rotten proposition,” said Larry, “and this dam’ cigarette won’t draw!”

“I could stand getting licked,” went on Barty, too preoccupied to consider the plaints of his principal, “if I thought the Clergy had played fair.  Father Hogan and Father Sweeney stood to us well, and I know Father Greer was for you at the first go-off; but God knows what way he and the rest o’ them went, after.  I wouldn’t trust them—­” His dark and mournful eyes rested dejectedly upon Larry.  “And what’s more, they don’t trust you!”

“They’re perfectly right,” said Larry; “shows their sense!  You and I are what Father Greer and the rest of them would consider rotten bad Catholics, and I believe they know it!” He got up from the limping old rocking-chair and stretched himself, with a yawn that prolonged itself into a howl.  “Oh Dark Rosaleen!—­or Kathleen-ni-Houlihan—­or anything else you like to call yourself—­if you only knew how really and sincerely devoted I am to you!  I believe I’m a perfectly single-minded Irish patriot, and ye you won’t believe in me, and no more will any one else except this bloody old fool of a Barty here!  Barry my hearty, I’m going to bed!  I’m done!  Don’t wake me till the news comes in—­” He gave vent to another heart-broken yawn.

“Well, for God’s sake stop howling like a banshee, and go!” replied the hard-pressed Barty, “I’m about done myself!”

The opening Meet of the Broadwater Vale Hounds chanced to take place at Cluhir Bridge, on the day after the election.  Larry, finishing a late breakfast at Hallinan’s Hotel, heard the beloved sounds of the hunt, the pistol-cracks of the whips, the clatter of horse-hoofs, the jingle of bits, and the steady paddling of hounds’ feet in the muddy street.  Joined with these was the clamour of the town curs and the thunder of the following rush of town boys along Cluhir’s narrow pavements.  Larry ran to the window, and opening it, found himself practically face to face with young Georgy Talbot-Lowry, riding a horse of Bill Kirby’s.

The sight of the hounds drove from his mind the resolve to have no dealings more with the house of Talbot-Lowry.

“Hullo, Georgy!” he shouted:  “I didn’t know you were home—­”

Georgy gave a quick look at the window, and directed his gaze between his horse’s ears; save that his face had turned as red as his coat, there was nothing, as he jogged on, to indicate that he had either seen or heard.

Larry banged down the window, in a state of conflagration, every strained nerve vibrating.  What need to attempt to recount what he said or thought?  Dark Rosaleen has made trouble often enough between nearer and dearer than Larry and his young cousin.  She will send brothers to fight each other to the changing music of her harp, crowned and uncrowned; she will gather her sons under the sign of the Cross, and encourage them to hate one another for the love of God.  This was only a trivial bit of mischief hardly worthy of our attention, were it not that it had its share in the macadamising of that jungle road in which, as is frequent in such routes, the preliminary labour had been undertaken by an elephant, under the direction of a skilful mahout.