“I’ll bet you ten pounds,” said Bingham Blake, “that you hunt after eighty.”

“Done with you Bingham,” said the General, and the bet was booked.

General Bourke was an old soldier, who told the truth in saying that he had hunted over the same ground sixty years ago.  But he had not been at it ever since, for he had in the meantime seen a great deal of hard active service, and obtained high military reputation.  But he had again taken kindly to the national sport of his country, on returning to his own estate at the close of the Peninsular War; and had ever since attended the meets twice a week through every winter, with fewer exceptions than any other member of the hunt.  He always wore top-boots—­of the ancient cut, with deep painted tops and square toes, drawn tight up over the calf of his leg; a pair of most capacious dark-coloured leather breeches, the origin of which was unknown to any other present member of the hunt, and a red frock coat, very much soiled by weather, water, and wear.  The General was a rich man, and therefore always had a horse to suit him.  On the present occasion, he was riding a strong brown beast, called Parsimony, that would climb over anything, and creep down the gable end of a house if he were required to do so.  He was got by OEconomy; those who know county Mayo know the breed well.

They were now all crowded into the large dining-room at Kelly’s Court; about five-and-twenty redcoats, and Mr Armstrong’s rusty black.  In spite of his shabby appearance, however, and the fact that the greater number of those around him were Roman Catholics, he seemed to be very popular with the lot; and his opinion on the important subject of its being a scenting morning was asked with as much confidence in his judgment, as though the foxes of the country were peculiarly subject to episcopalian jurisdiction.

“Well, then, Peter,” said he, “the wind’s in the right quarter.  Mick says there’s a strong dog-fox in the long bit of gorse behind the firs; if he breaks from that he must run towards Ballintubber, and when you’re once over the meering [5] into Roscommon, there’s not an acre of tilled land, unless a herd’s garden, between that and—­the deuce knows where all—­further than most of you’ll like to ride, I take it.”

[FOOTNOTE 35:  meering—­a well-marked boundary, such as a ditch or
fence, between farms, fields, bogs, etc]

“How far’ll you go yourself, Armstrong?  Faith, I believe it’s few of the crack nags’ll beat the old black pony at a long day.”

“Is it I?” said the Parson, innocently.  “As soon as I’ve heard the dogs give tongue, and seen them well on their game, I’ll go home.  I’ve land ploughing, and I must look after that.  But, as I was saying, if the fox breaks well away from the gorse, you’ll have the best run you’ve seen this season; but if he dodges back into the plantation, you’ll have enough to do to make him break at all; and when he does, he’ll go away towards Ballyhaunis, through as cross a country as ever a horse put a shoe into.”