"Ah, Lyney's a tough dog," said my neighbour; "in the Ring of Ireland there isn't a nicer rider." [Illustration: "Lyney's a tough dog!"] "There might be men as good as him in Poundlick!" said an ugly little black-muzzled fellow, suddenly and offensively, "and horses too! As good as any _he'll_ throw his leg over!" Dr. Fraser's patient stood up abruptly. "Oh, oh, oh!" said the man with the bushy whiskers, placing himself in front of the invalid. "Let you be said by the lady, Danny, and go home! Have behaviour now, Peter Lynch!" The matter hung for a moment; a bell began to ring in the middle of the course, and the onlookers flung the situation from them like a squeezed lemon, and swept _en masse_ towards the summons, bearing with them the invalid. "Off the stage I have never seen people clear out so fast," remarked Andrew. "Now that we've seen Dr. Fraser's Lightning Cure, I suppose we may as well go too." His eyes, by a singular coincidence, met those of Miss Longmuir, which were very pretty eyes, dark and soft. "I must go and hunt up our pony," she said, with a very businesslike air; "we've entered her for the third race, you know." She put back her hair as it blew across her forehead, and the gold in it glinted in the sun. "How sporting of you!" we heard Andrew say, as they walked away together. My wife and Dr. Fraser and I turned as one man, and went in the opposite direction. We steered for an island of furze and grey boulders that had been flung into the valley like a vedette from the fortified hill-side, and was placed, considerately, at the apex of the oval course. Half a dozen men were already grouped upon the boulders, like cormorants. We clambered to a higher _étage_, and there spread forth ourselves and our belongings upon the warm slabs. The sun was hot, yet not too hot, the smell of trodden turf was pleasant in the air, the river sparkled and gurgled beside us; the chimneys of Poundlick sent up languid spires of blue smoke; its yellow and pink and white houses became poetic in the September haze. The first delicate pangs of hunger were stealing upon us, and I felt reasonably certain that nothing necessary to our welfare had been forgotten. I lit a cigarette and pulled my cap over my eyes, and listened to a lark, spiring, like the smoke, into the blue, while my wife clattered in the luncheon basket. It was a moment of entire well-being, overshadowed only by the prospect of having to take an interest in the racing. I said as much to Dr. Fraser, who was dismembering a cold chicken with almost awful surgical dexterity. "You must wake up for our race," she said. "I'll call you in time." "Must I? I hope you're going to ride." "Heaven forfend!" replied Dr. Fraser. "Nothing more spirited than a weight-carrying bicycle! I'm not in the least horsey. Meg was dying to ride, but as we bought the pony from the great Lyney, and he had won any number of races on her, he was distinctly indicated."