Just at the minut we heard a great screechin' o' dogs, and through the
fence comes the harrier pack that the Reserve orficers kept in the camp
beyond. ("Harriers" they called them, but, begob! there wasn't anythin'
they wouldn't hunt from a fox to a turkey, those ones.)

"What are they afther chasin'?" says Mikeen.

"'Tis a stag to-day, be the newspapers," I says, "but the dear knows
they'll not cotch him this month, he must be gone by this half-hour, and
the breath is from them, their tongues is hangin' out a yard," I says.

'Twas at that moment the Blessed Saints gave me wisdom.

"Mikeen," I says, "drag the mascot out before them; we'll see sport this
day."

"Herself--" he begins.

"Hoult your whisht," says I, "and come on." With that we dragged me bowld
goat out before the dogs and let go the chain.

The dogs sniffed up the strong blast of ody-koloney and let a yowl out of
them like all the banshees in the nation of Ireland, and the billy legged
it for his life--small blame to him!

Meself and Mikeen climbed a double to see the sport.

"They have him," says Mikeen. "They have not," says I; "the crature howlds
them by two lengths."