TIM O'LEARY'S HARE 61 



than with a burst of music they streamed across the next 

 field, while every man strove his utmost to outpace his 

 fellow. The Squire was the first to negotiate the stiff, 

 quick-set fence, with Timothy following close on his heels ; 

 nor were the other followers far behind, for all were keen 

 as mustard. Over plough and fallow, springy turf, 

 deeply rutted bramble-fringed lanes, high banks, and 

 thorny hedges, led the chase, the racing of the Httle 

 pack proclaiming a breast-high scent, and the music 

 almost incessant. 



Hell for leather ran the " field," but, run as they would, 

 they were unable to keep on terms with hounds. " Ould 

 Pat Lynch is in over the head in the big flax-hole beyont," 

 cried one of the followers, with a guffaw, as O'Leary's 

 bosom friend fell " neck over crop " into a foully-smelling 

 flax-hole. 



" Take thunderin' good care I don't sit beside him at 

 supper, for he'll stink hke an ould weasel," replied the 

 man addressed ; and on they went, seeing the unfortunate 

 Pat had managed to pull himself safely to the bank. 



For twenty-five minutes did that Httle pack of beagles 

 run without a check, and almost as straight as though 

 their quarry was a fox, so straight, indeed, that some 

 of the older hands began to wonder of what nature the 

 hunted game would prove to be at the death. No one 

 entertained the smallest doubt that hounds would gain 

 their blood ; " Trust ould Tim for that." 



" Gamest ould hare as iver run," said one man enthu- 

 siastically to a neighbour, as he panted and pounded across 

 a heavy plough, a good quarter of a mile behind the sterns 

 of the flying pack. 



