Father Hogan and Father Sweeney stood to us well, and I
know Father Greer was for you at the first go-off; but God knows what
way he and the rest o' them went, after. I wouldn't trust them--"
His dark and mournful eyes rested dejectedly upon Larry. "And what's
more, they don't trust you!"
"They're perfectly right," said Larry; "shows their sense! You and I
are what Father Greer and the rest of them would consider rotten bad
Catholics, and I believe they know it!" He got up from the limping old
rocking-chair and stretched himself, with a yawn that prolonged itself
into a howl. "Oh Dark Rosaleen!--or Kathleen-ni-Houlihan--or anything
else you like to call yourself--if you only knew how really and
sincerely devoted I am to you! I believe I'm a perfectly single-minded
Irish patriot, and ye you won't believe in me, and no more will any
one else except this bloody old fool of a Barty here! Barry my hearty,
I'm going to bed! I'm done! Don't wake me till the news comes in--"
He gave vent to another heart-broken yawn.
"Well, for God's sake stop howling like a banshee, and go!" replied
the hard-pressed Barty, "I'm about done myself!"
The opening Meet of the Broadwater Vale Hounds chanced to take place
at Cluhir Bridge, on the day after the election. Larry, finishing a
late breakfast at Hallinan's Hotel, heard the beloved sounds of the
hunt, the pistol-cracks of the whips, the clatter of horse-hoofs, the
jingle of bits, and the steady paddling of hounds' feet in the muddy
street.
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