TIM O'LEARY'S HARE 63 



" Didn't his ould father before him break his leg jump- 

 ing a ditch afther the hounds, an' didn't he sit down that 

 very minute on the bank an' sphce it, and then, begorra, 

 he was in at the death ? " 



" Go along, Patsey, wid your blarney ; ye got out iv the 

 flax-hole the wrong side this morning." 



" Sure, an' it was a wooden leg he had," slyly added 

 Pat, as he sailed away in the wake of the pack as fast 

 as his waterlogged condition would allow. On and on 

 raced the pack, harder than before, in a catch-us- 

 who-can sort of style, the weedy harriers outpacing and 

 stringing away far ahead of their smaller cousins, the 

 beagles. Not a few of the short-winded or less game 

 members of the " field " began to lag perceptibly; but, 

 possibly spurred on by the idea of a second " christening," 

 at the expense of the Squire, never a one threw up the 

 sponge. 



Old Timothy, closely followed by the Squire, was 

 ever in the van, and every now and again the ear- 

 piercing "Forrard! forrard ! forrard ! me darlints," of 

 the veteran would be heard above the music of the 

 hounds. 



At length the line began to ring somewhat, and some 

 of the followers declared that the hare would shortly 

 double back to her " pad " again. The swing taken by 

 hounds was but small, however, and up hill and down dale 

 they flew, pointing for a small whitewashed farm-house, 

 which lay nestling amongst a cluster of thatched barns 

 and outhouses about a quarter of a mile ahead. Suddenly 

 the report of a gun rang out, and, upon hearing the sound 

 Tim O'Leary cried, "Come on, boys; that ould divil, 



