MR BOXALL GETS IN THE WAY
When the General had arrived on the scene, Shan had just got in and
landed his antagonist a drum-sounding blow on the ribs with the butt of
his whip.
“Seize the other chap, Boxall!” cried General Grampound, making for
Mahony.
He was just half a second too late; the soot bag, swung like a club,
missed Shan, and, catching Mr Boxall fair and square on the side of his
face, sent him spinning like a tee-totum across the road, and head over
heels in the ditch.
That was all.
A dead silence took the yelling crowd.
“He’s kilt!” came a voice.
“He isn’t; sure, his legs is wavin’.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s the Mimber of Parlyment.”
“Off wid you, Bob Mahony—you’ve kilt the Mimber of Parlyment! Run for
your life, and don’t lave off runnin’ till you’re out of the county.”
“Hold your tongue!” cried General Grampound. “Boxall—hullo! Boxall! are
you hurt?”
“I’m all right,” replied Mr Boxall, who, from being legs upwards, was
now on hands and knees in the ditch. “I’ve lost something—dash it!”
“What have you lost?”
“Watch.”
“Come out, and I’ll get some of these chaps to look.”
Mr Boxall came out of the ditch with his handkerchief held to the left
side of his forehead.
“Why, your watch and chain are on you!” cried the General.
“So they are,” said Mr Boxall, pulling the watch out with his left hand,
and putting it back. “I’m off to the house—I want to wash.”
“Sure you’re not hurt?”
“Not in the least, only my forehead scratched.”
“What’s up?” cried Dicky Fanshawe, who had just arrived.
“Nothing,” replied his uncle. “Fellow hit him by mistake—no bones
broken. Will you take the governess-cart back to the house, Boxall?”
“No thanks—I’ll walk.”
“His legs is all right,” murmured the sympathetic crowd, as the injured
one departed still with his handkerchief to his face, “and his arums.
Sure, it’s the mercy and all his neck wasn’t bruck.”
“Did yiz see the skelp Bob landed him?”
“Musha! Sure, I thought it would have sent his head flying into Athy,
like a gulf ball.”
Patsy, who had pulled the governess-cart up, rose to his feet; his sharp
eye had caught sight of something lying on the road.
“Hould the reins a moment, Mr Robert,” said he, putting them into Lord
Gawdor’s hands. He hopped out of the cart, picked up the object in the
road, whatever it was, put it in his trousers pocket, and then stood
holding the pony’s head; whilst the meet, from which Bob Mahony had
departed as swiftly as his donkey could trot, turned its attention to
the business of the day, and Shan, collecting his dogs, declared his
intention of drawing the Furzes.
“Was that a marble you picked up, Patsy?” asked Lord Gawdor, as the
red-headed one, hearing Shan’s declaration, climbed into the “tub” again
and took the reins.
Patsy grinned.
“Be sittin’ still, now,” said he, hitting the pony a flick with the
whip, “or the ould General will, maybe, be sendin’ us back. It’s the
Furzes Shan’s goin’ to draw.”
“But was it a marble, Patsy?”
“Look at Shan and the dogs and ould Rafter cockin’ his tail,” said
Patsy. “It’s the fine sport we’ll be havin’ if there’s a hare in the
Furzes.”
The Furzes, a tract of waste land bordering a big stretch of ploughed
fields and arable land, was reached in twenty minutes’ walk, General
Grampound walking between Dick and Violet and rigorously dividing them.
It was a splendid day for the business—one of those grey, damp days one
gets only in Ireland.
The company spread itself a bit, and Shan was assailed by all sorts of
suggestions and queries.
“Try the fields, Shan.”
“Try the garse bushes over beyant the rise.”
“The ould quarry hole, Shan.”
“Sure, there’s a herd of hares in the hollow beyant the scrub firs.”
“Niver you listen to thim, Shan; it’s in the Sivin Acres you ought to be
tryin’.”
Meanwhile, Shan, supremely indifferent to advice and suggestions, began
to draw the adjacent cover.
“I do hope they’ll find a hare,” said Miss Lestrange, whose eyes were
sparkling.
“Hare!” said the General, “I don’t believe there’s one in the county.
Every one of these blessed small tenants owns a gun of some sort, and
they’re poachers to a man.”
At that instant, as if to give him the lie, came a “view halloa!” from
Micky Finnegan away to the right where the fence divided the scrub land
from the fields.
In a second Rafter, followed by the pack, Shan, and all the field was
making towards the sound.
“Run!” cried Dicky, as he started after them, followed by Violet and
General Grampound, who, despite the fact that his wind wasn’t “what it
used to be,” managed to keep up with them.
The dogs were just laid on, and every hound gave tongue as they streamed
through the fence and over the ploughed land followed by Shan, who took
the fence like a grasshopper, and the yelling field.
Over the sound of the dogs, over the laughter and shouts, over
everything came Shan’s “Forrard! forrard! forrard! Hi up, y’ divils!”
“Over you go!” cried Dicky, who had taken the fence at a jump, whilst
Violet, scrambling over, nearly tumbled into his arms. “It’s only a
short bit of plough, and there’s grass fields beyond.”
“Look at thim!” cried Patsy, who, with the children, was standing up in
the “tub.” “Look at the ould Gineral getting over the fence; he’s
callin’ thim to stop! Brayvo, Mr Fanshawe! Look at the ould Gineral—look
at him goin’ over the plough—they’re through the hedge beyant. He’s
afther thim—he’s through! He ain’t—he’s slipped and over on his back.
Hurroo! brayvo, Mr Fanshawe! They’re half over the grass field.”
“Run!” cried Dicky, as he dragged his companion through an opening in
the hedge, dividing the plough from the grass lands.
“Oh, Dicky,” gasped the girl, half dead with running, and laughing at
the same time, “listen to him!”
“I know,” said he. “It’s horrible—but’s it’s our only chance to have a
minute together. Cling on to the end of my stick, it’ll help you. This
grass isn’t bad going.”
“He’s in the ditch!” gasped Violet.
“It’s soft—he won’t hurt—run!”
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