fourteen couple in all, and
they ranged in style from a short-legged black-and-tan harrier, who had
undoubtedly had an uncle who was a dachshund, to a thing with a head
like a greyhound, a snow-white body, and a feathered stern that would
have been a credit to a setter. In between these extremes came several
broken-haired Welshmen, some dilapidated 24-inch foxhounds, and a lot of
pale-coloured hounds, whose general effect was that of the tablecloth on
which we had eaten our breakfast that morning, being dirty white,
covered with stains that looked like either tea or egg, or both.

"Them's the old Irish breed," said Robert, as the yellow horse
voluntarily stopped short to avoid stepping on one of them; "there's no
better. That Gaylass there would take a line up Patrick Street on a fair
day, and you'd live and die seeing her kill rats."

I am bound to say I thought it more likely that I should live to see her
and some of her relations killing sheep, judging by their manners along
the road; but we got to Letter cross-roads at last with no more than an
old hen and a wandering cur dog on our collective consciences. The road
and its adjacent fences were thronged with foot people, mostly
strapping young men and boys, in the white flannel coats and slouched
felt hats that strike a stranger with their unusualness and
picturesqueness.

"Do you ever have a row with Land Leaguers?" I asked, noting their
sticks, while the warnings of a sentimental Radical friend as to the
danger of encountering an infuriated Irish peasantry suddenly assumed
plausibility.

"Land League? The dear help ye! Who'd be bothered with the Land League
here?" said Robert, shoving the yellow horse into the crowd; "let the
hounds through, boys, can't ye? No, Captain, but 'tis Saint November's
Day, as they call it, a great holiday, and there isn't a ruffian in the
country but has come out with his blagyard dog to head the fox!"

A grin of guilt passed over the faces of the audience.

"There's plinty foxes in the hill, Mr. Thrinder," shouted one of them;
"Dan Murphy says there isn't a morning but he'd see six or eight o' them
hoppin' there."

"Faith, 'tis thrue for you," corroborated Dan Murphy. "If ye had thim
gethered in a quarther of ground and dhropped a pin from th' elements,
'twould reach one o' thim!"

(As a matter of fact, I haven't a notion what Mr. Murphy meant, but that
is what he said, so I faithfully record it.)

The riders were farmers an