It has been well observed that there are moments and moments. The
present, as far as I was concerned, belonged to the more painful
variety.
Even to my exhausted mind it was plain that there was need here for
explanations. An Irishman's croquet lawn is his castle, and strangers
cannot plunge on to it unannounced through hedges without being
prepared to give reasons.
Unfortunately, speech was beyond me. I could have done many things at
that moment. I could have emptied a water butt, lain down and gone to
sleep, or melted ice with a touch of the finger. But I could not
speak. The conversation was opened by the other man, in whose
soothing hand the hen now lay, apparently resigned to its fate.
"Come right in," he said pleasantly. "Don't knock. Your bird, I
think?"
I stood there panting. I must have presented a quaint appearance. My
hair was full of twigs and other foreign substances. My face was moist
and grimy. My mouth hung open. I wanted to sit down. My legs felt as
if they had ceased to belong to me.
"I must apologize--" I began, and ended the sentence with gasps.
Conversation languished. The elderly gentleman looked at me with what
seemed to me indignant surprise. His daughter looked through me. The
man regarded me with a friendly smile, as if I were some old crony
dropped in unexpectedly.
"I'm afraid--" I said, and stopped again.
"Hard work, big-game hunting in this weather," said the man. "Take a
long breath."