BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK 



the mackerel backs were in the sky. The reluc- 

 tant Tommies were drawn from their lair, where 

 the village sat in conclave on them and the hold- 

 alls, and we pushed onwards by what the pro- 

 prietor described as " Mr Oakley's privvat road 

 through the glen." Those who know the Dargle, 

 in the county of Wicklow, know what a glen can 

 be at its best, and it is hard to admit that it has 

 a rival ; but in the evening light, with the deep 

 places of that bosky cleft showing a writhing twist 

 of white water a hundred feet below, ]\Ir Oakley's 

 glen was very hard to beat. It was as nearly dark 

 as the summer night knew how to be when the 

 loafers of Mahntooroch — this is again the phonetic 

 gasp of despair — took their pipes from their mouths 

 to point out to us the way to the Grapes Hotel. 

 We could make out that it was a sophisticated 

 village, hemmed in between a wooded hill and a 

 river, and lying silent in the velvet gloom, except 

 for the noise of running water and the irregular 

 patter of the Tommies' hoofs. 



