80 A MEDLEY OF SPOET 



minutes' canter along the friendly lane carried him to a 

 rise in the ground, when, as he had anticipated, he found 

 that the pack had swung left-handed, and were pointing 

 almost straight for him. 



" Musha, the divil couldn't av done it betther to save 

 his life," murmured Denis joyfully to himself, as he 

 watched the hounds racing towards him, far ahead of the 

 field. " An' it's all plain sailin', an' plenty of con- 

 vanient gaps between this an' Pether's farm, an' may 

 the divil mend me if I don't show old Terry, the hunts- 

 man, an' the whole lot iv them, a clane pair iv heels till 

 we've run intil the fox, for the mare's as fresh as powdher, 

 an' as game as ould ' Donovan ' when he won the Grand 

 National." 



Screening himself from the view of the field behind 

 a tall clump of blackthorn bushes, Denis waited until the 

 last hound had crossed the lane, and then administering 

 a thundering volley of " clog-reminders " to the bony 

 barrel of his ancient mount, he rammed her through a 

 weak place in the hedge, and went bumping along in 

 the wake of the flying pack. " Forrard, forrard, forrard, 

 me ould darUn' ! " cried he as he heard the sound of the 

 Master and huntsman galloping hard towards him at no 

 great distance in the rear. On and on sped the old mare, 

 and, considering her age, right well did she hold her own, 

 and as she gallantly flew the little bank, topped by a 

 low, quick-set fence, bounding the meadow leading into 

 Peter's farm, her rider exclaimed, as once more he 

 wriggled from her withers into the saddle : " Musha, 



