said Barry.

"Do you mean to give me the lie, sir?" replied Frank.

"The dog got under the horse's feet. How was I to help it?"

There was a universal titter at this, which made Barry wish himself at
home again, with his brandy-bottle.

"Ah! sir," said Frank; "you're as fit to ride a hunt as you are to do
anything else which gentlemen usually do. May I trouble you to make
yourself scarce? Your horse, I see, can't carry you much farther, and
if you'll take my advice, you'll go home, before you're ridden over
yourself. Well, Martin, is the bone broken?"

Martin had got off his horse, and was kneeling down beside the poor
hurt brute. "Indeed it is, my lord, in two places. You'd better let
Tony kill him; he has an awful sprain in the back, as well; he'll niver
put a foot to the ground again."

"By heavens, that's too bad! isn't it Bingham? He was, out and out, the
finest puppy we entered last year."

"What can you expect," said Bingham, "when such fellows as that come
into a field? He's as much business here as a cow in a drawing-room."

"But what can we do?--one can't turn him off the land; if he chooses to
come, he must."

"Why, yes," said Bingham, "if he will come he must. But then, if he
insists on doing so, he may be horsewhipped; he may be ridden over;
he may be kicked; and he may be told that he's a low, vulgar, paltry
scoundrel; and, if he repeats his visits, that's the treatment he'll
probably receive."

Barry was close to both the speakers, and of course heard, and was
intended to hear, every word that was said. He contented himself,
however, with muttering certain inaudible defiances, and was seen and
heard of no more that day.

The hunt was continued, and the fox was killed; but Frank and those
with him saw but little more of it. However, as soon as directions were
given for the death of poor Goneaway, they went on, and received a very
satisfactory account of the proceedings from those who had seen the
finish. As usual, the Parson was among the number, and he gave them a
most detailed history, not only of the fox's proceedings during the
day, but also of all the reasons which actuated the animal, in every
different turn he took.

"I declare, Armstrong," said Peter Dillon, "I think you were a fox
yourself, once! Do you remember anything about it?"

"What a run he would give!" said Jerry; "the best pack that was ever
kennelled wouldn't have a chance with him."

"Who was that old chap," said Nich