I found Andy Devenish, of Castle Devenish, Co. Cork, in Piccadilly. He was
wearing an old frieze overcoat, the bottom of which had suffered from a
puppy's teeth, and a bowler hat with a guard-ring dangling from its flat
brim. His freckled nose was squashed against Fore's window as he gazed
wistfully at the sporting prints within. I led him gently westwards, pushed
him into the club's best arm-chair, placed the wine of our mutual country
at his elbow and spoke to him severely.
"Tell me," said I, "how is it I find you thus, got up in the height of
fashion, loitering with intent to lady-kill in this colossal rabbit-warren
which knows no hound but the sleuth, no horse but the towel? How is it,
man, when there's a Peace on and the month is February and there's no frost
south of the Liffey? Why aren't you dressed in a coat that is pink in spots
and a cap that is velvet in places, flipping over your stone-faced banks on
a rampageous four-year-old that you bought for ten pounds down, ten pounds
some time, a sack of seed oats and an old saddle, and will eventually palm
off on an Englishman at Ballsbridge for two hundred cash? What about the
hounds? The Ballinknock Versatiles? What are they doing without their
master? Going for improving country walks with Patsey Mike, two and two
like young ladies from a seminary, or sitting up on their benches, a tear
in every eye, wailing, 'Oh, where is our wandering boy tonight?'
"And what about the Ballinknock foxes, eh? Aren't they entitled to some
consideration? Didn't they carry on patiently for four dull years while you
were in France, learning to walk in the cavalry, on the understanding that
you'd make up for it when you got back by hunting them every day of the
week? Have you no love or sympathy for dumb animals? Why are you here? What
are you flying from? Tell me your dread secret. Is it debt, arson,
murder--or is some woman threatening to marry you?"
Andy growled into his whiskey-and-soda, then suddenly pointed out of the
window. "See the advertisement on that bus?"
"'MIND THE WIDOW'," I read, "'shrieking comedy by Cosmo--'"
"No, not that one," Andy grumbled; "t'other."
It was a picture of a smiling gentleman with a head that gleamed like
patent leather. The gentleman attributed his happiness to the fact that he
mixed "Florazora" cream with his scalp. "Florazora Cream," I read, "fixes
the hair. Subtly perfumed with honey and flowers. Imparts a lustre and--"
The bus resumed its journey.
I studied Andy's head. Normally it looks as though he had been mopping out
a rusty drain with it. It was quite normal, every hair on end and pointing
in a different direction.
"Well, what of Florazora?" I asked. "It's evident she has never entered
into your life, at any rate."
"That's all you know about it," said Andy. "They're sitting up for me with
blunderbusses and brickbats at home, and 'Florazora' is the cause."
"But how?" I asked.
"Ye'll discover if ye'll let me speak for a half a minute. I may admit to
you I was very sweet on a little girl that was staying with the MacManuses
a while back, so I bought a bottle of that stuff to keep my hair down while
I was pitching her the yarn. I cornered the lass alone in the MacManus'
drawing-room, went down on my knees and threw off a dandy proposal I had
learnt by heart out of a book. The girl curled about all over the sofa with
emotion, and for a bit I thought my eloquence was doing it. Then I
perceived she was near shaken to pieces with laughter. Couldn't think why
till I happened to catch sight of myself in a mirror and saw that my darned
old hair had come unstuck again and was bobbing up all over my head, not
singly as it is now, but a cockatoo tuft at a time, thanks to 'Florazora.'
I rose up off the MacManus carpet and ran all the way home."
"Still I don't see--" I began.
"Ye never will if ye don't give me a chance to tell ye," said Andy.
"Do ye remember that greasy divil Peter Flynn that owns a draper's shop in
Ballinknock main street? A fat man he is with the flowing locks of a stump
orator, given to fancy waistcoats and a frock-coat--very dressy. Ye'd see
him standing at the shop-door on fair-days, bobbing to the women and
how-dy-doin' the country boys the way he'd tout a vote or two, he being the
leading Sinn Fein organiser down our way now. Anyhow he and his raparees
got after me and the hunt, on account of me evicting a tenant that hadn't
paid a penny of rent for seven years and didn't ever intend to. They hinted
to the decent poor farmers round about that there'd be ricks fired and cows
ripped if they allowed me to hunt their lands, so I got stopped everywhere.
I had land enough of my own to carry on with, so I hunted there till the
foxes and hares gave out, which they precious soon did, seeing that half
the neighbourhood was out shooting, trapping, poisoning and lurching them.
"I bought a stag from a feller in Limerick and chased that for a bit; then
on a 'tween day, when I was away and the deer out grazing in the demesne,
somebody slipped a brace of Mauser bullets into it, and that form of
diversion was likewise at an end. As far as I could see an animal wouldn't
stand a ten minutes' chance in my country unless it were an armadillo.
"I wrote to the War Office, asking them could they kindly oblige me with
the loan of a lively little tank for pursuing purposes, but got no answer.
I guess WINSTON had a liver on him that morning. So there was nothing for
it but to give up the hounds. I went and broke the sad news to Patsey Mike,
who was mixing stirabout at the time. 'Oh, God save us, don't be doing
that, Sor,' says he. 'Hoult hard a day or so and I'll be afther findin'
some little object to hunt, that them dirthy blagyards won't shoot at all.'
"Two mornings later he turned up, dragging something in an oat-sack.
"I have it here that'll course out before the houn's like a shootin'-star,'
says he.
"'What is it?' says I.
"The rogue put his hand in the sack and drew out a yellow mongrel dog.
"'Where did ye get that?' says I.
"'Shure didn't I borry it?' says he.
"'And who did ye borrow it from?' says I.
"'From Misther Flynn, no less,' says he. ''Tis his little foxey pet dog.'
"'Does Mr. Flynn know you borrowed it from him?' says I.
"'Begob that he does not,' says he. 'Mr. Flynn is beyond in Youghal and I
borryed it in the dark dead of night over the yard wall. Faith, he'll run
home like a flick of lightning, he's that scared, the same dog.'
"'Ye did well,' said I; 'but will the hounds chase him?'
"'That they will, Sor. What with foxes one day, stags the next and hares
the next, there's sorra a born thing they wouldn't hunt given there's smell
enough in it,' says the lad. 'Have ye the laste little trace of aniseed in
the house that you could drench the crature with the way the houn's would
folly him?'
"Divil a drop of aniseed or anything else had I on the place, and I stood
there scratching my ear with my crop wondering what to do, when suddenly I
remembered that relic of my courting days, 'Florazora.' 'I have it,' I
said; 'I've got something that'll fix _that_ hare all right.'
"I fetched the bottle and rubbed a handful or so of the stuff well into Mr.
Flynn's pet dog and let him go with a flip of my whip lash to help him on
his way. He lit out for home as though the devil had kicked him, yelling
blue murder and laying a trail of flowers and honey across the country so
thick you could pretty nigh eat it. I gave him a fair start, then laid the
hounds on and we had a five-mile point, going like a steeplechase all the
way. Flynn lives in a lonely house about half a mile out of Ballinknock,
and the 'bag-man' got home to it and through the wee dog-hole into the yard
with just six inches to spare.
"Patsey went over the wall and borrowed the dog three times after that. It
was no trouble at all. Flynn was still away in Youghal, and his housekeeper
was that deaf Gabriel would have to announce the Crack of Doom to her on
his fingers. But it was too good to last. On the fourth day we were nearing
Flynn's house, the dog leading the pack by not fifty yards, when I saw him
cut across a field to the left, while the hounds tumbled into a little
boreen that runs up from the railway-station and went streaking down it
singing out as if they were on a breast-high scent and in view.
"'Begob,' says I to Patsey, 'they've changed; they're running a hare, I
believe.'
"'Tis a hare in a frock-coat then, Sor,' says he, pointing with his whip.
"Sure enough it was a man they were after. I saw him then galloping down
the boreen for dear life, coat-tails flying, hair streaming, terror in his
big white face. Flynn! I did my damdest, but I had no hope of stopping
them, not in that little lane. When I came out on the high-road I found
what was left of the politician half-way up a telegraph post, like a treed
cat, screeching and scrambling and calling on the Saints, with old Actress
swinging by her teeth to the tails of his shirt, Cruiskeen ripping the
trousers off him a leg at a time, and the rest of the pack leaping under
him like the surf of the sea.
"I nearly rolled off my mare with laughter, though well I knew the
screeching scarecrow up the pole would have me drawn and quartered for that
day's work. I whipped the hounds off in the end, took 'em by road to Fermoy
that same evening and boxed 'em to my brother-in-law in Carlow. 'Twas
fortunate I did, for my kennels were burnt to the ground that night."
Andy sighed, drained his glass and gazed regretfully at the bottom.
"H-m, ye-es, but there's still a point I would like cleared up," said I.
"What made the pack change and chase Flynn?"
"Appears he was strongly addicted to 'Florazora' too," said Andy.