The big grey horse, and his seventeen stone rider, moved off in the
opposite direction to the tread of the hunt, which was slowly and
steadily pushing upwards through the wood. Dr. Mangan was one of the
select company of followers of hounds who know when they have had
enough.

A narrow, stony passage, more resembling a drain than a lane, ran
round the wood; the riders hustled along it, like a train in a
cutting, too tightly packed for the most vindictive kicker to injure
his neighbour, too hampered by impeding rocks to make more speed than
can be accomplished by a jog. The drain ended at a V-shaped fissure
between two slants of rock, and, by the time the last horse had
clattered and scrambled up it, the hounds were away again, steering
up, across heathery fields, enclosed by fences and stone walls of all
sorts and sizes, for a great double-headed hill on the sky-line, three
or more miles away.

"Carrigaholt as usual!" said Major Dick, over his shoulder, to the
Hon. Sec., young Kirby of Castle Ire. "If you get a chance, try and
head him off the western rocks--and Bill! Tell those infernal
children of mine they're to keep with Charles and look out for bogs!"

His conscience as a parent thus appeased, the Master applied himself
to the no small task of keeping his hounds in sight, and of evading
the equal difficulties presented by rocks and bog holes. The offspring
in question were now, with Larry, in comparative and undesired safety
beneath the fluttering wing of Charles, and Bill Kirby, having
faithfully delivered his message, found himself immediately adopted as
an alternative protector, and repented him of his fidelity.