When his honour the Colonel took the owld rigiment to France, Herself came
home bringin' the rigimental mascot with her. A big white long-haired
billy-goat he was, the same.
"I'll not be afther lavin him at the daypo," says Herself; "'tis no place
for a domestic animal at all, the language them little drummer-boys uses,
the dear knows," says she.
So me bowld mascot he stops up at the Castle and makes free with the
flower-beds and the hall and the drawin'-room and the domestic maids the
way he'd be the Lord-Lieutenant o' the land, and not jist a plain human
Angory goat. A proud arrygent crature it is, be the powers! Steppin' about
as disdainy as a Dublin gerrl in Ballydehob, and if, mebbe, you'd address
him for to get off your flower-beds with the colour of anger in your mouth
he'd let a roar out of him like a Sligo piper with poteen taken, and fetch
you a skelp with his horns that would lay you out for dead.
And sorra the use is it of complainin' to Herself.
"Ah, Delaney, 'tis the marshal sperit widin him," she'd say; "we must be
patient with him for the sake of the owld rigiment;" and with that she'd
start hand-feedin' him with warmed-up sponge-cake and playin' with his long
silky hair.
"Far be it from me," I says to Mikeen, the herd, "to question the workings
o' Providence, but were I the Colonel of a rigiment, which I am not, and
_had_ to have a mascot, it's not a raparee billy I'd be afther havin', but
a nanny, or mebbe a cow, that would step along dacently with the rigiment
and bring ye luck, and mebbe a dropeen o' milk for the orficers' tea as
well. If it's such cratures that bring ye fortune may I die a peaceful
death in a poor-house," says I.
"I'm wid ye," says Mikeen, groanin', he bein' spotted like a leopard with
bruises by rason of him havin' to comb the mascot's silky hair twice daily,
and the quick temper of the baste at the tangles.
The long of a summer the billy stops up at the Castle, archin' his neck at
the wurrld and growin' prouder and prouder by dint of the standin' he had
with the owld rigiment and the high-feedin' he had from Herself. Faith,
'tis a great delight we servints had of him I'm tellin' ye! It was as much
as your life's blood was worth to cross his path in the garden, and if the
domestic maids would be meetin' him in the house they'd let him eat the
dresses off them before they dare say a word.
In the autumn me bowld mascot gets a wee trifle powerful by dint o' the
high-feedin' and the natural nature of the crature. Herself, wid her
iligant lady's nose, is afther noticin' it, and she sends wan o' the gerrls
to tell meself and Mikeen to wash the baste.
"There will be murdher done this day," says I to the lad, "but 'tis the
orders--go get the cart-rope and the chain off the bull-dog, and we'll do
it. Faith, it isn't all the bravery that's at the Front," says I.
"That's the true wurrd," says he, rubbin' the lumps on his shins, the poor
boy.
"Oh, Delaney," says the domestic gerrl, drawin' a bottle from her apron
pocket, "Herself says will ye plaze be so obligin' to sprinkle the mascot
wid a dropeen of this ody-koloney scent--mebbe it will quench his
powerfulness, she says."
I put the bottle in me pocket. We tripped up me brave goat with the rope,
got the bull's collar and chain, and dragged him away towards the pond, him
buckin' and ragin' between us like a Tyrone Street lady in the arms of the
poliss. To hear the roars he let out of him would turn your hearts cowld as
lead, but we held on.
The Saints were wid us; in half-an-hour we had him as wet as an eel, and
broke the bottle of ody-koloney over his back.
He was clane mad. "God save us all when he gets that chain off him!" I
says. "God save us it is!" says Mikeen, looking around for a tree to shin.
Just at the minut we heard a great screechin' o' dogs, and through the
fence comes the harrier pack that the Reserve orficers kept in the camp
beyond. ("Harriers" they called them, but, begob! there wasn't anythin'
they wouldn't hunt from a fox to a turkey, those ones.)
"What are they afther chasin'?" says Mikeen.
"'Tis a stag to-day, be the newspapers," I says, "but the dear knows
they'll not cotch him this month, he must be gone by this half-hour, and
the breath is from them, their tongues is hangin' out a yard," I says.
'Twas at that moment the Blessed Saints gave me wisdom.
"Mikeen," I says, "drag the mascot out before them; we'll see sport this
day."
"Herself--" he begins.
"Hoult your whisht," says I, "and come on." With that we dragged me bowld
goat out before the dogs and let go the chain.
The dogs sniffed up the strong blast of ody-koloney and let a yowl out of
them like all the banshees in the nation of Ireland, and the billy legged
it for his life--small blame to him!
Meself and Mikeen climbed a double to see the sport.
"They have him," says Mikeen. "They have not," says I; "the crature howlds
them by two lengths."
"He has doubled on them," says Mikeen; "he is as sly as a Jew."
"He is forninst the rabbit holes now," I says. "I thank the howly Saints he
cannot burrow."
"He has tripped up--they have him bayed," says Mikeen.
And that was the mortal truth, the dogs had him.
Oh, but it was a bowld billy! He went in among those hounds like a lad to a
fair, you could hear his horns lambastin' their ribs a mile away. But they
were too many for him and bit the grand silky hair off him by the mouthful.
The way it flew you'd think it was a snowstorm.
"They have him desthroyed," says Mikeen.
"They have," says I, "God be praised!"
At the moment the huntsman leps his harse up on the double beside us; he
was phlastered with muck from his hair to his boots.
"What have they out there?" says he, blinkin' through the mud and not
knowin' rightly what his hounds were coursin' out before him, whether it
would be a stag or a Bengal tiger.
"'Tis her ladyship's Rile Imperial Mascot Goat," says I; "an' God save your
honour for she'll have your blood in a bottle for this day's worrk."
The huntsman lets a curse out of his stummick and rides afther them, flat
on his saddle, both spurs tearin'. In the wink of an eye he is down among
the dogs, larruppin' them with his whip and drawin' down curses on them
that would wither ye to hear him--he had great eddication, that orficer.
"Come now," says I to Mikeen, the poor lad, "let you and me bear the cowld
corpse of the diseased back to Herself; mebbe she'll have a shillin' handy
in her hand, the way she'd reward us for saving the body from the dogs,"
says I.
But was me bowld mascot dead? He was not. He was alive and well, the
thickness of his wool had saved him. For all that he had not a hair of it
left to him, and when he stood up before you you wouldn't know him; he was
that ordinary without his fleece, he was no more than a common poor man's
goat, he was no more to look at than a skinned rabbit, and that's the
truth.
He walked home with meself and Mikeen as meek as a young gerrl.
Herself came runnin' out, all fluttery, to look at him.
"Ah, but that's not _my_ mascot," says she.
"It is, Marm," says I; and I swore to it by the whole Calendar--Mikeen too.
"Bah! how disgustin'. Take it to the cow-house," says she, and stepped
indoors without another word.
We led the billy away, him hangin' his head for shame at his nakedness.
"Ye'll do no more mascottin' avic," says I to him. "Sorra luck you would
bring to a blind beggar-man the way you are now--you'll never step along
again with the drums and tambourines."
And that was the true word, for though Herself had Mikeen rubbing him daily
with bear's-grease and hair-lotion he never grew the same grand fleece
again, and he'd stand about in the back-field, brooding for hours together,
the divilment clane gone out of his system; and if, mebbe, you'd draw the
stroke of an ash-plant across his ribs to hearten him, he'd only just look
at you sad-like and pass no remarks.
* * * * *