“On me head,” replied Billy—“no need to ax where yours is. What are yiz gettin’ at?” “Haven’t you heard of Paddy Murphy?” “What ails Paddy Murphy?” “He’s locked up in the cowl-hole of the Big House,” replied Mr Mahony. “You lie!” replied Billy. “Tell him,” said the sweep, addressing Mr Mullins. The cobbler, glad for once to take the journalistic shine out of Billy, gave a detailed report of the capture of Paddy Murphy, to which Billy listened with deep attention and an asinine expression of wonder on his long yellow face, scratching his head now and then, and now and then uttering ejaculations of surprise. “Is it the threwth you’re tellin’ me?” asked Billy, when the recital was over. “It is.” “And where did you get your information from?” “Not from you,” replied the cobbler. “No,” replied Billy, “for, if you had, you’d a’ got it right. Paddy’s in no cowl-hole, he’s locked in the pitato room of the Big House.” “And where did _you_ get your information from, may I ax?” “From himself.” “And where did you see him?” “Tin minits ago, wid his face at the pitato room winda and him filing his way out through the bars. I wint up to see Larry Lyburn about a bit of a bizness, and Larry says to me, ‘Billy,’ he says. ‘What?’ says I. ‘Listen,’ he says. We was standin’ by the coach-house dure, and I listened, and, sure enough, I hears the sound of a file. The pitato room winda is hid from the stable-yard by an arm of the wall, and, sure enough, at the bars of it, there was Paddy’s big red face and him filin’ away at a bar. ‘I’m cocht,’ says Paddy. ‘Begorra, you look it,’ says I. ‘But I’m not cocht yet,’ says he, with a grin. ‘If the file houlds I’ll be out in two hours’ hard work.’” Billy halted, dead, and looked around him upon his discomfited audience. “O’Farrell’s hounds meet at the Big House at tin o’clock,” said Mr Stone. “I was jew be this to see Mr Moriarty’s cow. She’s swallowed a dish-clath off a hedge, bad scran to her! and can’t get shut of it—but she’ll have to wait for me attindance till afther the meet. I wouldn’t miss it for two hundred cows, for you mark me words, there’ll be things to be seen.” “Faith,” said Mr Mullins, “I had this pair of brogues to finish be twelve, but, begorra! if I never struck another peg I’ll be wid you to see the fun.” “What’s the time now?” asked Mr Mahony. “Gone nine,” replied Mr Stone. Mr Mahony paused for a second in thought, then: “Billy!” cried he. “Yes, daddy?” came a voice from the back of the cottage. “Put the dunkey to.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXXI THE FOX AND THE HOUNDS “The meet of the hounds which took place this morning on the lawn of Glen Druid House stands unparalleled in the history of Irish sport. To begin with, half the country-side attended, and the hounds never turned up at all——” --------------