was broke, and if that owld shkin was to go
the lin'th of himself without a breechin' on him he'd break all before
him! There was some fellas took him to a funeral one time without a
breechin' on him, an' when he seen the hearse what did he do but to rise
up in the sky."

Wherein lay the moral support of a breeching in such a contingency it is
hard to say. I accepted the fact without comment, and expressed a regret
that we had not been indulged with the entire set of black harness.

Croppy measured me with his eye, grinned bashfully, and said:--

"Sure it's the Dane's breechin' we have, Miss! I daresay he'd hardly get
home at all if we took any more from him!"

The Dean's breeching! For an instant a wild confusion of ideas deprived
me of the power of speech. I could only hope that Croppy had left him
his gaiters! Then I pulled myself together.

"Croppy," I said in consternation, "how did you get it? Did you borrow
it from the coachman?"

"Is it the coachman!" said Croppy tranquilly. "I did not, Miss. Sure he
was asleep in the snug."

"But can they get home without it?"

A sudden alarm chilled me to the marrow.

"Arrah, why not, Miss? That black horse of the Dane's wouldn't care if
there was nothing at all on him!"

I heard Robert reeling in his line--had he a fish? Or, better still, had
he made up his mind to go home?

As a matter of fact, neither was the case; Robert was merely fractious,
and in that particular mood when he wished to have his mind
imperceptibly made up for him, while prepared to combat any direct
suggestion. From what quarter the ignoble proposition that we should go
home arose is immaterial. It is enough to say that Robert believed it to
be his own, and that, before he had time to reconsider the question, the
tactful Croppy had crammed the old white horse into the shafts of the
car.

It was by this time past five o'clock, and a threatening range of clouds
was rising from seaward across the west. Things had been against us from
the first, and if the last stone in the sling of Fate was that we were
to be wet through before we got home, it would be no more than I
expected. The old horse, however, addressed himself to the eight Irish
miles that lay between him and home with unexpected vivacity. We swung
in the ruts, we shook like jellies on the merciless patches of broken
stones, and Croppy stimulated the pace with weird whistlings through
his teeth, and heavy prods with the butt of his wh