But Mr. Gunning had already gone into the hotel with his rod and fishing basket.  He had a gift, that he rarely lost a chance of exercising, of provoking Fanny Fitz to wrath, and the fact that he now declined her challenge may or may not be accounted for by the gloom consequent upon an empty fishing basket.

Next morning the various hangers-on in the hotel yard were provided with occupation and entertainment of the most satiating description.  Fanny Fitz’s new purchase was being despatched to the nearest railway station, some fourteen miles off.  It had been arranged that the ostler was to drive her there in one of the hotel cars, which should then return with a horse that was coming from Galway for the hotel owner; nothing could have fitted in better.  Unfortunately the only part of the arrangement that refused to fit in was the filly.  Even while Fanny Fitz was finishing her toilet, high-pitched howls of objurgation were rising, alarmingly, from the stable-yard, and on reaching the scene of action she was confronted by the spectacle of the ostler being hurtled across the yard by the filly, to whose head he was clinging, while two helpers upheld the shafts of the outside car from which she had fled.  All were shouting directions and warnings at the tops of their voices, the hotel dog was barking, the filly alone was silent, but her opinions were unmistakable.

A waiter in shirt-sleeves was leaning comfortably out of a window, watching the fray and offering airy suggestion and comment.

“It’s what I’m telling them, miss,” he said easily, including Fanny Fitz in the conversation; “if they get that one into Recess to-night it’ll not be under a side-car.”

“But the man I bought her from,” said Fanny Fitz, lamentably addressing the company, “told me that he drove his mother to chapel with her last Sunday.”

“Musha then, may the divil sweep hell with him and burn the broom afther!” panted the ostler in bitter wrath, as he slewed the filly to a standstill.  “I wish himself and his mother was behind her when I went putting the crupper on her!  B’leeve me, they’d drop their chat!”

“Sure I knew that young Geogheghan back in Westport,” remarked the waiter, “and all the good there is about him was a little handy talk.  Take the harness off her, Mick, and throw a saddle on her.  It’s little I’d think meself of canthering her into Recess!”

“How handy ye are yerself with your talk!” retorted the ostler; “it’s canthering round the table ye’ll be doing, and it’s what’ll suit ye betther!”

Fanny Fitz began to laugh.  “He might ride the saddle of mutton!” she said, with a levity that, under the circumstances, did her credit.  “You’d better take the harness off, and you’ll have to get her to Recess for me somehow.”

The ostler took no notice of this suggestion; he was repeating to himself:  “Ride the saddle o’ mutton!  By dam, I never heard the like o’ that!  Ride the saddle o’ mutton—!” He suddenly gave a yell of laughing, and in the next moment the startled filly dragged the reins from his hand with a tremendous plunge, and in half a dozen bounds was out of the yard gate and clattering down the road.