“The night express from Carlow goes through Tullagh station at four o’clock in the morning. I have written to the manager of the railway to have it stopped on Friday morning. The question is how are we to get from here to the station—we can’t walk.” “I was thinkin’, sir, I might get the ould trap from the inn at Castle Knock and meet yiz at the cross-roads; but sure, if wind of it got about, the whole county would be out to give yiz a send-off.” “That wouldn’t do,” said Mr Fanshawe. “This isn’t a business one wants old slippers and rice mixed up with.” “No, sir; and Mrs Lyburn, the lan’lady of the inn, is’nt to be thrusted; she’s a whisperin’ gallery for lettin’ out saycrets. I’m thinkin’ the best way is to harness Fly-by-night to the dogcart; the moon’s near the full, it’s a straight road to Tullagh, and the divil on a dhromedary wouldn’t catch the ould mare wanst she has the hard high-road undher her hoofs. The only thing, sir——” “Yes?” “The ould Gineral’s bedroom window is over the stable-yard.” “Oh, it is, is it?” “Yes, sir; his window is next to Mr Boxall’s, so it’s how to get the dogcart out of the coach-house, and the ould mare out of the stable, and the two hitched together and out of the yard that’s thrublin’ me.” “Yes,” said Mr Fanshawe, “that’s the rub, for if the General heard us and looked out of the window, we’d be done for.” “I know, sir!” said Patsy. “Yes?” “We can lay down straw—straw the yard right to the corner where you can get on the turf. Larry Lyburn will do it between twelve and wan o’clock in the mornin’, and you can start be two.” “Begad, Patsy’s that’s not a bad idea; they do it in London in the streets, before houses, when people are sick. But can Larry be trusted?” “Larry’s to be thrusted wid everything but drink, sir,” said Patsy. “He’ll straw the yard, and harness the ould mare and all, if I give him the word.” “Well, I’ll give him a couple of sovereigns if he does the thing properly; you can tell him that.” Mr Fanshawe paused and looked around him. They had reached the edge of a large pool with sedgy banks; the waters of the pool reflected the cold light of the winter sunset. “Look, sir!” cried Patsy. A wild duck and drake were flying towards them, across the pool. They came on, seemingly heedless of the human beings on the bank. Their flight seemed hurried and distressed. Overhead they passed, and Mr Fanshawe raised his gun. The report echoed from the woods, and the duck and her mate passed on unscathed, but the hawk that had been pursuing them came whirtling from the sky, and fell on the ground a few yards away from the marksman. “Faith, that was a fine shot,” said Patsy, as he picked up the corpse. “There are Grampounds even amongst birds,” muttered Dicky to himself, as he drew the unfired cartridge and the empty case from his gun. “Come, Patsy, I’m off back; there’s no use hanging about after duck, for we have no dog to retrieve them with.”