“Well, Frank,” said Blake, “the cock has crowed; I must away.  I suppose you’ll ride down to Igoe’s, and see Brien:  but think of what I’ve said, and,” he added, whispering—­“remember that I will do the best I can for the animals, if you put them into my stables.  They shall be made second to nothing, and shall only and always run to win.”

So, Blake and John Bottom walked off to the box stables and home paddocks.

Frank ordered his horse, and complied with his friend’s suggestion, by riding down to Igoe’s.  He was not in happy spirits as he went; he felt afraid that his hopes, with regard to Fanny, would be blighted; and that, if he persevered in his suit, he would only be harassed, annoyed, and disappointed.  He did not see what steps he could take, or how he could manage to see her.  It would be impossible for him to go to Grey Abbey, after having been, as he felt, turned out by Lord Cashel.  Other things troubled him also.  What should he now do with himself?  It was true that he could go down to his own house; but everyone at Kelly’s Court expected him to bring with him a bride and a fortune; and, instead of that, he would have to own that he had been jilted, and would be reduced to the disagreeable necessity of borrowing money from his own tenants.  And then, that awful subject, money—­took possession of him.  What the deuce was he to do?  What a fool he had been, to be seduced on to the turf by such a man as Blake!  And then, he expressed a wish to himself that Blake had been—­a long way off before he ever saw him.  There he was, steward of the Curragh, the owner of the best horse in Ireland, and absolutely without money to enable him to carry on the game till he could properly retreat from it!

Then he was a little unfair upon his friend:  he accused him of knowing his position, and wishing to take advantage of it; and, by the time he had got to Igoe’s, his mind was certainly not in a very charitable mood towards poor Dot.  He had, nevertheless, determined to accept his offer, and to take a last look at the three Milesians.

The people about the stables always made a great fuss with Lord Ballindine, partly because he was one of the stewards, and partly because he was going to run a crack horse for the Derby in England; and though, generally speaking, he did not care much for personal complimentary respect, he usually got chattered and flattered into good humour at Igoe’s.

“Well, my lord,” said a sort of foreman, or partner, or managing man, who usually presided over the yard, “I think we’ll be apt to get justice to Ireland on the downs this year.  That is, they’ll give us nothing but what we takes from ’em by hard fighting, or running, as the case may be.”

“How’s Brien looking this morning, Grady?”

“As fresh as a primrose, my lord, and as clear as crystal:  he’s ready, this moment, to run through any set of three years old as could be put on the Curragh, anyway.”