(Duggan returns)--"Hoo--hoo--sir, my nose. Oh, murdher sheery, my nose
is broked!"

"Blow your nose, you spalpeen you--Where's Callaghan?"

"Oh, sir, bad luck to him every day he rises out of his bed; he got a
stone in his fist, too, that he hot me a pelt on the nose wid, and then
made off home."

"Home is id? Start, boys, off--chase him, lie into him--azy, curse yez,
take time gettin out; that's it--keep to him--don't wait for me; take
care you little salpeens or you'll brake your bones, so you will: blow
the dust of this road, I can't see my way in it."

"Oh! murdher, Jem, agra, my knee's out' o' joint."

"My elbow's smashed, Paddy. Bad luck to him--the devil fly away wid
him--oh! ha I ha!--oh! ha! ha! murdher--hard fortune to me, but little
Mickey Geery fell, an' thripped the masther, an' himself's, disabled
now--his black breeches split too--look at him feelin' them--oh! oh! ha!
ha!--by tare-an'-onty, Callaghan will be murdhered, if they cotch him."

This was a specimen of scholastic civilization which Ireland only could
furnish; nothing, indeed, could be more perfectly ludicrous than such a
chase; and such scenes were by no means uncommon in hedge-schools, for,
wherever severe punishment was dreaded--and, in truth, most of the hedge
masters were unfeeling tyrants--the boy, if sufficiently grown to make
a good race, usually broke away, and fled home at the top of his speed.
The pack then were usually led on by the master, who mostly headed them
himself, all in full cry, exhibiting such a scene as should be witnessed