Doris had need to follow Patsy’s advice and “hould tight,” for the “tub” was racing the donkey-cart for the rise, an elevation from which the whole sweep of the country round could be viewed. “There they go!” cried Patsy, as Punch, the pony, drew up puffing and blowing and all of a lather. “Look, Mr Robert! Sure, it makes me ache in the legs to see them and not to be wid them.” The field had spread out like a fan. One horse having stepped in a rabbit hole and flung its rider, was following the chase at its own sweet will with bridle streaming and empty saddle. Away from the ruck and leading by a good distance, one could see the master, the whips and Mr Fanshawe; behind these, but not so far behind, a thing like an animated flail; this was Billy the Buck, who, not being afraid of rabbit’s holes, and knowing the boggy bits and other pitfalls, managed to hold his own, and would manage so to do till the end of the day. After him came the other mounted folk, and after them, at the heel of the hunt, all sorts of running ragamuffins. The “tub” and Mr. Mahony’s donkey-cart being the only wheeled vehicles, were alone in their glory on the rise. Mr Mahony was standing up in his cart making audible comments on the run, a sooty pipe an inch long in his mouth. “He’s doubled!” suddenly yelled Patsy. “He’s afear’d of the river; it’s Killbegg he’ll be making for, and we’ll cotch a sight of them on the road if we can get there in time.” “I’ll race yiz to the gate,” cried Mr Mahony, sitting down plump in his cart and plucking up the head of his donkey whilst he hit it a whack with the blackthorn stick he carried for a whip. “A hundred to one I get there first, and the divil take the hindmost. Hurroo!” “Hurroo!” yelled Patsy. “Go it, Punch! Hould tight, Miss Doris—don’t be afear’d—we’ll be all right if the wheels hold and he doesn’t stick his fut in a rabbit hole. Hi! hi! hi! Sut-bags! drive fair, and don’t be crowdin’ me—we’re over—we ain’t—Holy Mary! the springs are goin’—hould on by your teeth, we’re comin’ to a trinch!” Now, along the Tullagh road at this minute was coming a waggonette containing the first contingent of the guests from England, arrived only an hour ago at Tullagh station, and on their way to Glen Druid. There were four people in the waggonette. General Grampound, an old gentleman, with a white moustache and a red face, sat in one corner. One could tell at a glance what he was; Nature and his profession had labelled him plainly: “Old East Indian general—peppery—this side up—don’t touch.” By General Grampound sat his ward, Violet Lestrange, a pretty girl, with dark hair and blue eyes. Opposite General Grampound sat Uncle Molyneux, a very aristocratic-looking, middle-aged person who wore an eye-glass and a waxed moustache. Opposite Violet Lestrange sat Mr Boxall, the Member of Parliament, who looked as if he had swallowed a Blue Book and had not finished digesting it.