24 THE BARONY OF 



On Threeneheila is a lone dismal lough, on 

 which forms the smoothest ice a skater could 

 desire. In the moonlight, after a homely but 

 by no means despicable dinner at the Lodge, 

 Tom Dwyer and his guest start for the lough, 

 and after carefully inspecting one end of it for 

 traces of a string of wild geese which have been 

 reported in the neighbourhood, are quickly 

 shod with the necessary steels. The moon 

 makes queer shadows as its rim rests on the 

 shoulder of the Galtees ; the cold is intense, 

 and after a turn or so, the gurgle from Tom's 

 flask is not unpleasant music. As he sheers 

 off by himself his tall figure appears to flicker 

 in the green haze, and save for the noise of the 

 skates the silence is intense, while every star is 

 visible in the arch overhead, their aching dis- 

 tances shown by the vast reaches of shining 

 dust that seem to be still so much further from 

 us. After an hour on the lough we prepare to 

 return to the Lodge by another route from 

 that by which we came. There is a smithy by 

 the roadside, into which we go to light a pipe. 

 The trestle around the bellows of Leum Gow 

 is crowded ; this is the gossip club of the 



