Larry, neglected, fell back, and presently found himself beside an old
friend, Father David Hogan, the priest of Riverstown. It was nearly
ten years since the great days of Father David's black mare; she had
passed into legend, and Father David, something heavier than he was
but no less keen, now followed hounds in more leisurely fashion on the
back of the black mare's son, a portly and careful bay cob.
"I'm very pleased to see you out, Mr. Coppinger," Father David began,
the kindly little blue eyes twinkling deep in his red face, confirming
the assurance imparted by his extensive smile, that his friendship was
still unshaken, "You've been missing some nice hunts."
"I've been too hard worked to get out, Father," apologised Larry.
"Ah, otherwise engaged, maybe?" said Father David, with a facetious
stress on the word engaged. "I was greatly put out over the election,"
he continued. "Tell me now, why didn't the Unionists support you? I
noticed that our worthy M.F.H. came to record his vote, but your
cousin, the late M.F.H., was, as they say, conspicuous by his
absence."
"He's quite an invalid now," said Larry shortly.
"Indeed? Indeed? And is that the case? I'm grieved to hear it!" Father
David pressed the stout cob nearer to Joker, and murmured very
confidentially. "I've known you since your boyhood I may say, Mr.
Coppinger, and you will not consider me impertinent speaking to you.
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