een he rode
a winning race at the Curragh, and came in first on the back of Blue
Blazes, the wickedest horse of the day in Ireland. From that hour he
became a celebrity, and until too old to ride, was the crack jockey of
his time. From jockey he grew into trainer--the usual transition of
the tadpole to the frog; and when the racing stud was given up by the
O'Donoghue in exchange for the hunting field, Kerry led the pack to
their glorious sport. As time wore on, and its course brought saddening
fortunes to his master, Kerry's occupation was invaded; the horses were
sold, the hounds given up, and the kennel fell to ruins. Of the large
household that once filled the castle, a few were now retained; but
among these was Kerry. It was not that he was useful, or that his
services could minister to the comfort or convenience of the family; far
from it, the commonest offices of in-door life he was ignorant of, and,
even if he knew, would have shrunk from performing them, as being a
degradation. His whole skill was limited to the stable-yard, and there,
now, his functions were unneeded. It would seem as if he were kept as
a kind of memento of their once condition, rather than any thing else.
There was a pride in maintaining one who did nothing the whole day but
lounge about the offices and the court-yard, in his old ragged suit of
huntsman. And so, too, it impressed the country people, who seeing him,
believed that at any moment the ancient splendour of the house might
shine forth again, and Kerry, as of yore, ride out on his thoroughbred,
to make the valleys ring with music. He was, as it were, a kind of
staff, through which, at a day's notice, the whole regiment might be
mustered. It was in this spirit he lived, and moved, and spoke. He was
always going about looking after a "nice beast to carry the master," and
a "real bit of blood for Master Mark," and he would send a gossoon to
ask if Barry O'Brien of the bridge "heard tell of a fox in the cover
below the road." In fact, his preparations ever portended a speedy
resumption of the habits in which his youth and manhood were spent.

Such was the character who now, in the easy deshabille described,
descended into the court-yard with a great bunch of keys in his hand,
and led the way towards the stable.

"I put the little mare into the hack-stable, Mr. Lawler," said he,
"because the hunters is in training, and I didn't like to disturb them
with a strange beast."

"Hunters in tr