not over-particular, but I admit that it was rather a
shock to meet the turkey itself again, more especially as it was the
sole item of the _menu_. There was no doubt of its identity, as it was
short of a leg, and half the breast had been shaved away. The aunt must
have read my thoughts in my face. She fixed her small implacable eyes on
mine for one quelling instant, then she looked at Robert. Her nephew was
obviously afraid to meet her eye; he coughed uneasily, and handed a
surreptitious potato to the puppy who was sitting under his chair.

"This place is rotten with dogs," said the aunt; with which announcement
she retired from the conversation, and fell again to the slaughter of
the parlour-maid. I timidly ate my portion of turkey and tried not to
think about the cow-house.

It rained all night. I could hear the water hammering into something
that rang like a gong; and each time I rolled over in the musty trough
of my feather-bed I fractiously asked myself why the mischief they had
left the tap running all night. Next morning the matter was explained
when, on demanding a bath, I was told that "there wasn't but one in the
house, and 'twas undher the rain-down. But sure ye can have it," with
which it was dragged in full of dirty water and flakes of whitewash, and
when I got out of it I felt as if I had been through the Bankruptcy
Court.

The day was windy and misty--a combination of weather possible only in
Ireland--but there was no snow, and Robert Trinder, seated at breakfast
in a purple-red hunting coat, dingy drab breeches, and woollen socks,
assured me that it was turning out a grand morning.

I distinctly liked the looks of my mount when Jerry the Whip pulled her
out of the stable for me. She was big and brown, with hindquarters that
looked like jumping; she was also very dirty and obviously underfed.
None the less she was lively enough, and justified Jerry's prediction
that "she'd be apt to shake a couple or three bucks out of herself when
she'd see the hounds". Old Robert was on an ugly brute of a yellow
horse, rather like a big mule, who began the day by bucking out of the
yard gate as if he had been trained by Buffalo Bill. It was at this
juncture that I first really respected Robert Trinder; his retention of
his seat was so unstudied, and his command of appropriate epithets so
complete.

Jerry and the hounds awaited us on the road, the latter as mixed a party
as I have ever come across. There were about