d that I'll never turn out
another season, and it'll be true for me this year. I'm hunting over
sixty years, Ballindine, in these three counties. I ought to have had
enough of it by this time, you'll say."

"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