Mr. Hallinan’s jaw dropped unaffectedly.

“Merciful God!” he murmured; “did he hear me, d’ye think?”

“Ah, no fear, man!” whispered the Doctor, encouragingly.  “And if he did itself, maybe you’d get your cheque a bit quicker!”

In the silence that followed, a whimpering whistle from a hound, invisible, yet near at hand, sent a thrill through the waiting riders.  There followed the rustling rush of hounds through the undergrowth, as they gathered to enquire into the whimper.  Then another whimper, merging into a squeal, and Cottingham’s voice: 

“Hark to Dulcet!  Forrad to Dulcet!”

“Begad, they have him again,” said Dr. Mangan, without enthusiasm.  “I wonder where is Tishy gone to?  I suppose they’ll run these blasted hills now—­”

The big grey horse, and his seventeen stone rider, moved off in the opposite direction to the tread of the hunt, which was slowly and steadily pushing upwards through the wood.  Dr. Mangan was one of the select company of followers of hounds who know when they have had enough.

A narrow, stony passage, more resembling a drain than a lane, ran round the wood; the riders hustled along it, like a train in a cutting, too tightly packed for the most vindictive kicker to injure his neighbour, too hampered by impeding rocks to make more speed than can be accomplished by a jog.  The drain ended at a V-shaped fissure between two slants of rock, and, by the time the last horse had clattered and scrambled up it, the hounds were away again, steering up, across heathery fields, enclosed by fences and stone walls of all sorts and sizes, for a great double-headed hill on the sky-line, three or more miles away.

“Carrigaholt as usual!” said Major Dick, over his shoulder, to the Hon. Sec., young Kirby of Castle Ire.  “If you get a chance, try and head him off the western rocks—­and Bill!  Tell those infernal children of mine they’re to keep with Charles and look out for bogs!”

His conscience as a parent thus appeased, the Master applied himself to the no small task of keeping his hounds in sight, and of evading the equal difficulties presented by rocks and bog holes.  The offspring in question were now, with Larry, in comparative and undesired safety beneath the fluttering wing of Charles, and Bill Kirby, having faithfully delivered his message, found himself immediately adopted as an alternative protector, and repented him of his fidelity.

The hounds stormed on through the hills, running hard across the frequent boggy tracts, more slowly, and with searchings, over the intervening humps of rock and furze.  The fox was making a well-known point, and running a well-known line, but the fences in their infinite variety, defied the staling force of custom, and the difficulties of the going were intensified by the pace.  The hounds gained at length the ridge of the high country, and as they flitted along the skyline, the riders, labouring among the rocks, skirting the bogs, pounding at the best pace they could raise over the intervals of heather and grass, felt that their hold on the hunt had become distinctly insecure.