THE FOX AND THE HOUNDS
“The meet of the hounds which took place this morning on the lawn of
Glen Druid House stands unparalleled in the history of Irish sport. To
begin with, half the country-side attended, and the hounds never turned
up at all——”
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This extract is from the _Tullagh Guardian_ taken _verbatim_—and I would
quote the whole article, some three columns long, and make it do duty
for this chapter, if it were not that the bald facts given by the
pressman are such that I have to shave them to make them more
presentable.
At a quarter to ten the grounds in front of the Big House were swarming.
The thing resembled a village _fête_ in preparation rather than a
sporting fixture. Not only was Mr Mahony present, but his wife; not only
his wife, but his children.
Widdy Finnegan was also to the fore; and old Mr Finnegan, who never
stirred out on any account, unless for a wake, was there on his stick.
Shan Finucane, with Rafter at his heels, was present, and Shan never
turned up for a meet of the fox-hounds on any ordinary account.
Shepherd’s Cross had vomited its entire population, Tullagh had sent a
big contingent; the whole population, except the pigs, the hens, and one
bed-ridden individual of Castle Knock, had turned out; and even Castle
Connell, a tiny hamlet seven miles away, had sent its representative to
swell the crowd. A ragamuffin selling peanuts completed the picture.
Looking and listening, one could not but perceive that there was
something on of more sinister and breathless interest than a meet of the
fox-hounds. A great joke seemed to have been divided into small pieces
amongst the people; even the children had bits of it and there was a
hush in the turmoil, a muteness in the clamour which, coupled with
bursts of laughter that shook every now and then the whole assembly,
might have caused apprehension in the mind of an experienced Resident
Magistrate had one been present.
There was also a movement in the throng, a drift which, had you followed
it, would have taken you round the corner of the house to the
stable-yard and back again.
Back again, for every individual having feasted his eyes on the sight to
be seen retraced his steps, so that the show might not be given away.
The sight was Mr Murphy.
The broad, red face of Mr Murphy as he filed away at the bars of the
potato room window was a sight indeed.
One bar was out, and he was completing the demolition of the second,
sweating but cool, grinning like a cat, and exchanging jokes with
friends and enemies alike.
There were men and women in the throng who had good cause to hate Paddy
Murphy, but there was not a man or a woman who had even the thought of
betraying him. A whisper would have ruined him if conveyed to the
“quality” in the house; but no one whispered. Larry Lyburn, the
coachman, the stable helpers, all knew what was on; yet they led out Mr
Fanshawe’s horse, and a horse for General Grampound and a horse for Miss
Lestrange, and did the business, deaf and dumb to everything else. Mrs
Kinsella knew what was afoot, and the maids; as for Patsy, when he had
brought the prisoned one some breakfast, he had brought him also another
file.
It was all very wrong, of course; but there it was. There was not an
ounce of sympathy for Paddy Murphy, but a lot for his condition. Prison
to all these minds was as bad as death, and they helped him, just as
they would have helped him had he been drowning in the pond.
Whilst helping they jeered at him and joked with him, knowing well
enough that he would never after take revenge for these jeers with the
remembrance of their silence in his mind.
“There’s no signs of the polis yet, is there, Micky Strachan?” asked
Paddy, as he filed away.
“Not a speck,” replied the individual addressed; “they’re all beyant at
Shepherd’s Cross.”
“Take your teeth to it, Paddy,” suggested an individual over Micky
Strachan’s shoulder. “Make room for me, and don’t be blockin’ the
winda!” cried another. “Here, Mr Mahony, hould up Billy to have a look.”
“Oh, musha! musha! will yiz look at him?—he’s got wan bar out, and the
other’s near gone.” “Stick your back end through, Paddy, and we’ll pull
yiz.” “Put wan ear through at a time.” “Arrah! lave the man be, and
don’t be jestin’ at him.”
To all these advisers, jesters and sympathisers Mr Murphy replied in
kind; for he had a tongue like a rapier, and a wit that was pungent,
and—the pity of it—nine times out of ten unprintable.
As he replied to the jesters and the jeerers and the sympathisers, he
filed away for hard life, yet as unflurriedly and methodically as a
locksmith on a time job.
Then, suddenly, having gauged to a nicety the extent of his work, he
dropped his file, seized the bar, and the crowd cleared before the
window as they would have cleared before the cage of an escaping tiger.
For one moment of ferocious energy he wrestled with it, the veins on his
forehead swelling, his knuckles white as marble, his teeth exposed, and
his eyes tight shut—a terrific spectacle—then snap, bang! the thing
gave, and he tumbled backwards into the room.
“Paddy’s out!” yelled the crowd with delightful inconsequence,
scattering devious as though from the path of a python.
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