"'Tis a hare in a frock-coat then, Sor,' says he, pointing with his whip.

"Sure enough it was a man they were after. I saw him then galloping down
the boreen for dear life, coat-tails flying, hair streaming, terror in his
big white face. Flynn! I did my damdest, but I had no hope of stopping
them, not in that little lane. When I came out on the high-road I found
what was left of the politician half-way up a telegraph post, like a treed
cat, screeching and scrambling and calling on the Saints, with old Actress
swinging by her teeth to the tails of his shirt, Cruiskeen ripping the
trousers off him a leg at a time, and the rest of the pack leaping under
him like the surf of the sea.

"I nearly rolled off my mare with laughter, though well I knew the
screeching scarecrow up the pole would have me drawn and quartered for that
day's work. I whipped the hounds off in the end, took 'em by road to Fermoy
that same evening and boxed 'em to my brother-in-law in Carlow. 'Twas
fortunate I did, for my kennels were burnt to the ground that night."

Andy sighed, drained his glass and gazed regretfully at the bottom.

"H-m, ye-es, but there's still a point I would like cleared up," said I.
"What made the pack change and chase Flynn?"

"Appears he was strongly addicted to 'Florazora' too," said Andy.

PATLANDER.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Odd Job Man_ (_to Gardener, discussing dinner which has