“Mr Blake, thin—­Mr Blake, darlint—­doesn’t ye remimber the promise you guv me?”

“Mr Jerry, Mr Jerry, avick,”—­this was addressed to the brother—­“spake a word for me; do, yer honour; shure it was I come all the way from Teddy Mahony’s with the breeches this morning, God bless ’em, and the fine legs as is in ’em.”

But they were all balked, for Blake had his servant there.

“Get out, you blackguards!” said he, raising his tandem whip, as if to strike them.  “Get out, you robbers!  Are you going to take the cart and horses clean away from me?  That mare’ll settle some of ye, if you make so free with her! she’s not a bit too chary of her hind feet.  Get out of that, I tell you;” and he lightly struck with the point of his whip the boy who had Lambert Brown’s horse.

“Ah, Mr Bingham,” said, the boy, pretending to rub the part very hard, “you owe me one for that, anyhow, and it’s you are the good mark for it, God bless you.”

“Faix,” said another, “one blow from your honour is worth two promises from Lambert Brown, any way.”

There was a great laugh at this among the ragged crew, for Lambert Brown was still standing on the doorsteps:  when he heard this sally, however, he walked in, and the different red-coats and top-boots were not long in crowding after him.

Lord Ballindine received them in the same costume, and very glad they all seemed to see him again.  When an Irish gentleman is popular in his neighbourhood, nothing can exceed the real devotion paid to him; and when that gentleman is a master of hounds, and does not require a subscription, he is more than ever so.

“Welcome back, Ballindine—­better late than never; but why did you stay away so long?” said General Bourke, an old gentleman with long, thin, flowing grey hairs, waving beneath his broad-brimmed felt hunting-hat.  “You’re not getting so fond of the turf, I hope, as to be giving up the field for it?  Give me the sport where I can ride my own horse myself; not where I must pay a young rascal for doing it for me, and robbing me into the bargain, most likely.”

“Quite right, General,” said Frank; “so you see I’ve given up the Curragh, and come down to the dogs again.”

“Yes, but you’ve waited too long, man; the dogs have nearly done their work for this year.  I’m sorry for it; the last day of the season is the worst day in the year to me.  I’m ill for a week after it.”

“Well, General, please the pigs, we’ll be in great tune next October.  I’ve as fine a set of puppies to enter as there is in Ireland, let alone Connaught.  You must come down, and tell me what you think of them.”

“Next October’s all very well for you young fellows, but I’m seventy-eight.  I always make up my mind that I’ll never turn out another season, and it’ll be true for me this year.  I’m hunting over sixty years, Ballindine, in these three counties.  I ought to have had enough of it by this time, you’ll say.”