Though the majority of those who were in the habit of hunting with the Kelly’s Court hounds had been at the breakfast, here were still a considerable number of horsemen waiting on the lawn in front of the house, when Frank and his friends sallied forth¹. The dogs were collected round the huntsman, behaving themselves, for the most part, with admirable propriety²; an occasional yelp³ from a young hound would now and then prove that the whipper had his eye on them, and would not allow rambling⁴; but the old dogs sat demurely⁵ on their haunches, waiting the well-known signal for action. There they sat, as grave as so many senators, with their large heads raised, their heavy lips hanging from each side of their jaws⁶, and their deep, strong chests expanded so as to show fully⁷ their bone, muscle, and breeding.

Among the men who had arrived on the lawn during, breakfast were two who certainly had not come together, and who had not spoken since they had been there. They were Martin Kelly and Barry Lynch. Martin was dressed just as usual, except that he had on a pair of spurs, but Barry was armed cap-a-pie. Some time before his father’s death he had supplied himself with all the fashionable requisites⁹ for the field not because he was fond of hunting, for he was not but in order to prove himself as much a gentleman as other people. He had been out twice this year, but had felt very miserable¹⁰, for no one spoke⁸ to him, and he had gone home, on both occasions, early in the day; but he had now made up his mind that he would show himself to his old schoolfellow in his new character as an independent country gentleman; and what was more, he was

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