THE WHITE TROUT. 



453 



yards away. Hey, you ! Now for a view holloa. He's sure to 

 hear : or, who knows, perhaps it may fetch hounds back for 

 news of their fox ! Tally ho ! Yoi ! ! Yoi ! ! ! Help, you fool. 

 Why the fellow's deaf ! Of course he was deaf — did you ever 

 know a man mending a hedge or a road who wasn't ? He 

 never moved, nor even looked up from his work ! In sheer 

 despair I soused the mare's head under water ; and implored 

 her by all her ancestry and by the soul of St. Patrick to make 

 an effort. She made one, or two — then subsided lower than 

 ever ; and I played her by the bridle as if she were a great 

 white trout. Again I lifted up my voice, and holloaed — I 

 think I should have wept, had not I been so angered with 

 Rusticus and his base cowardice. I holloaed to the rising 

 moon, I holloaed to the dim grey horizon, and 1 bawled to the 

 unknown distance. And the latter at length gave succour. A 



whole village-full of wreckers suddenly dashed into view, 

 bringing at least willing hands and sturdy hearts. Six men on 

 to the stirrup-leathers ; a crack with the whip, a pull all 

 together — and the mare was on her legs on the turf, her back 



