money, and who was determined to keep that.  He was a miserable hanger-on at his brother’s house, without profession or prospects; greedy, stingy, and disagreeable; endowed with a squint, and long lank light-coloured hair:  he was a bad horseman, always craning and shirking in the field, boasting and lying after dinner; nevertheless, he was invited and endured because he was one of the Browns of Mount Dillon, cousin to the Browns of Castle Brown, nephew to Mrs Dillon the member’s wife, and third cousin of Lord Ballaghaderrin.

He dismounted in the gravel circle before the door, and looked round for someone to take his horse; but none of the urchins would come to him.  At last he caught hold of a little ragged boy whom he knew, from his own side of the country, and who had come all the way there, eight long Irish miles, on the chance of earning sixpence and seeing a hunt.

“Here, Patsy, come here, you born little divil,” and he laid hold of the arm of the brat, who was trying to escape from him—­“come and hold my horse for me—­and I’ll not forget you.”

“Shure, yer honer, Mr Lambert, I can’t thin, for I’m afther engaging myself this blessed minute to Mr Larry Dillon, only he’s jist trotted round to the stables to spake a word to Mick Keogh.”

“Don’t be lying, you little blackguard; hould the horse, and don’t stir out of that.”

“Shure how can I, Mr Lambert, when I’ve been and guv my word to Mr Larry?” and the little fellow put his hands behind him, that he might not be forced to take hold of the reins.

“Don’t talk to me, you young imp, but take the horse.  I’ll not forget you when I come out.  What’s the matter with you, you fool; d’ye think I’d tell you a lie about it?”

Patsy evidently thought he would; for though he took the horse almost upon compulsion, he whimpered as he did so, and said: 

“Shure, Mr Lambert, would you go and rob a poor boy of his chances?—­I come’d all the way from Ballyglass this blessed morning to ’arn a tizzy, and av’ I doesn’t get it from you this turn, I’ll—­” But Lambert Brown had gone into the house, and on his return after breakfast he fully justified the lad’s suspicion, for he again promised him that he wouldn’t forget him, and that he’d see him some day at Mr Dillon’s.

“Well, Lambert Brown,” said the boy, as that worthy gentleman rode off, “it’s you’re the raal blackguard—­and it’s well all the counthry knows you:  sorrow be your bed this night; it’s little the poor’ll grieve for you, when you’re stretched, or the rich either, for the matther of that.”

Very different was the reception Bingham Blake got, as he drove up with his tandem and tax-cart:  half-a-dozen had kept themselves idle, each in the hope of being the lucky individual to come in for Bingham’s shilling.

“Och, Mr Bingham, shure I’m first,” roared one fellow.

But the first, as he styled himself, was soon knocked down under the wheels of the cart by the others.