They seemed to be all Toms, and Pats, and
Larrys, and Micks. I was done up very knowingly in pink, and thought
that I looked quite the thing, but for two or three hours nobody
noticed me.
I had my eyes about me, however, and soon found out which of them was
Tom O'Conor. He was a fine-looking fellow, thin and tall, but not
largely made, with a piercing gray eye, and a beautiful voice for
speaking to a hound. He had two sons there also, short, slight
fellows, but exquisite horsemen. I already felt that I had a kind of
acquaintance with the father, but I hardly knew on what ground to put
in my claim.
We had no sport early in the morning. It was a cold bleak February
day, with occasional storms of sleet. We rode from cover to cover,
but all in vain. "I am sorry, sir, that we are to have such a bad
day, as you are a stranger here," said one gentleman to me. This was
Jack O'Conor, Tom's eldest son, my bosom friend for many a year
after. Poor Jack! I fear that the Encumbered Estates Court sent him
altogether adrift upon the world.
"We may still have a run from Poulnaroe, if the gentleman chooses to
come on," said a voice coming from behind with a sharp trot. It was
Tom O'Conor.
"Wherever the hounds go, I'll follow," said I.
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