In the autumn me bowld mascot gets a wee trifle powerful by dint o' the
high-feedin' and the natural nature of the crature. Herself, wid her
iligant lady's nose, is afther noticin' it, and she sends wan o' the gerrls
to tell meself and Mikeen to wash the baste.

"There will be murdher done this day," says I to the lad, "but 'tis the
orders--go get the cart-rope and the chain off the bull-dog, and we'll do
it. Faith, it isn't all the bravery that's at the Front," says I.

"That's the true wurrd," says he, rubbin' the lumps on his shins, the poor
boy.

"Oh, Delaney," says the domestic gerrl, drawin' a bottle from her apron
pocket, "Herself says will ye plaze be so obligin' to sprinkle the mascot
wid a dropeen of this ody-koloney scent--mebbe it will quench his
powerfulness, she says."

I put the bottle in me pocket. We tripped up me brave goat with the rope,
got the bull's collar and chain, and dragged him away towards the pond, him
buckin' and ragin' between us like a Tyrone Street lady in the arms of the
poliss. To hear the roars he let out of him would turn your hearts cowld as
lead, but we held on.

The Saints were wid us; in half-an-hour we had him as wet as an eel, and
broke the bottle of ody-koloney over his back.

He was clane mad. "God save us all when he gets that chain off him!" I
says. "God save us it is!" says Mikeen, looking around for a tree to shin.