“It is a tory-hunt, my lord.”

“Who is the tory, or who are the tories?  Come, I’m at home here.  What’s your plan?”

“Why, simple pursuit.  We have the posse comitatus.”

“The posse comitatus!—­the posse devil; what do the tories care about the posse comitatus?  Have you bloodhounds?”

“No, my lord, but I think we can procure them.”

“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.”

[Illustration:  PAGE 736—­ Shawn-na-Middogue, your mother’s victim]

“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.”

“No, sir, you may not, unless to a very limited extent.  Those tories always, when pursued by bloodhounds, go down the wind whenever it is possible, and, consequently, leave very little trail behind them.  Your object will be, of course, to hunt them against the wind; they will consequently have little chance of escape, unless, as they are often in the habit of doing, they administer a sop.”

“What is a sop, my lord?”

“A piece of raw beef or mutton, kept for twenty-four hours under the armpit until it becomes saturated with the moisture of the body; after this, administer it to the dog, and instead of attacking he will follow you over the world.  The other sop resorted to by these fellows is the middogue, or skean, and, as they contrive to manage its application, it is the surer of the two.  Should you like to see Tom?”

“Unquestionably, my lord.  I intended before going to have requested the honor of a short interview.”

“Ay, of course, to make love.  Well, I tell you that Tom, like her uncle, has her wits about her.  Go up, then, you will find her in the withdrawing-room; and listen—­I desire that you will tell her of your tory-hunting project, and ask her opinion upon it.  Now, don’t forget that, because I will make inquiries about it.”

Woodward certainly found her in what was then termed the withdrawing-room.  She was in the act of embroidering, and received him with much courtesy and kindness.