All on the Irish Shore | Page 9

of
the rhododendron-bush burst a spectral black-and-white dog, with
floating fringes of ragged wool and hideous bald patches on its back.
"Fennessy's dog!" ejaculated Mrs. Alexander, falling back in her seat.
Probably Bismarck never enjoyed anything in his life as much as the all
too brief moment in which, leaning from his mistress's lap in the prow
of the flying "Bollée," he barked hysterically in the wake of the piebald
dog, who, in all its dolorous career had never before had the awful
experience of being chased by a motor-car. It darted in at the open door
of the lodge; the pursuers pulled up outside. There were paraffin lamps
in the windows, the open door was garlanded with evergreens; from it
proceeded loud and hilarious voices and the jerky strains of a
concertina. Mrs. Alexander, with all, her most cherished convictions
toppling on their pedestals, stood in the open doorway and stared,
unable to believe the testimony of her own eyes. Was that the
immaculate Barnet seated at the head of a crowded table, in her--Mrs.
Alexander's--very best bonnet and velvet cape, with a glass of steaming
potheen punch in her hand, and Willy Fennessy's arm round her waist?
The glass sank from the paragon's lips, the arm of Mr. Fennessy fell
from her waist; the circle of servants, tinkers, and country people vainly
tried to efface themselves behind each other.
"Barnet!" said Mrs. Alexander in an awful voice, and even in that
moment she appreciated with an added pang the feathery beauty of a
slice of Barnet's sponge-cake in the grimy fist of a tinker.

"Mrs. Fennessy, m'm, if you please," replied Barnet, with a dignity that,
considering the bonnet and cape, was highly creditable to her strength
of character.
At this point a hand dragged Mrs. Alexander backwards from the
doorway, a barefooted woman hustled past her into the house, slammed
the door in her face, and Mrs. Alexander found herself in the middle of
the hounds.
"We'd give you the brush, Mrs. Alexander," said Mr. Taylour, as he
flogged solidly all round him in the dusk, "but as the other lady seems
to have gone to ground with the fox I suppose she'll take it!"
* * * * *
Mrs. Fennessy paid out of her own ample savings the fines inflicted
upon her husband for potheen-making and selling drink in the Craffroe
gate lodge without a licence, and she shortly afterwards took him to
America.
Mrs. Alexander's friends professed themselves as being not in the least
surprised to hear that she had installed the afflicted Miss Fennessy
(sister to the late occupant) and her scarcely less afflicted companion,
the Fairy Pig, in her back lodge. Miss Fennessy, being deaf and dumb,
is not perhaps a paragon lodge-keeper, but having, like her brother,
been brought up in a work-house kitchen, she has taught Patsey
Crimmeen how to boil stirabout _à merveille_.

FANNY FITZ'S GAMBLE
"Where's Fanny Fitz?" said Captain Spicer to his wife.
They were leaning over the sea-wall in front of a little fishing hotel in
Connemara, idling away the interval usually vouchsafed by the Irish
car-driver between the hour at which he is ordered to be ready and that
at which he appears. It was a misty morning in early June, the time of
all times for Connemara, did the tourist only know it. The mountains

towered green and grey above the palely shining sea in which they
stood; the air was full of the sound of streams and the scent of wild
flowers; the thin mist had in it something of the dazzle of the sunlight
that was close behind it. Little Mrs. Spicer pulled down her veil: even
after a fortnight's fly-fishing she still retained some regard for her
complexion.
"She says she can't come," she responded; "she has letters to write or
something--and this is our last day!"
Mrs. Spicer evidently found the fact provoking.
"On this information the favourite receded 33 to 1," remarked Captain
Spicer. "I think you may as well chuck it, my dear."
"I should like to beat them both!" said his wife, flinging a pebble into
the rising tide that was very softly mouthing the seaweedy rocks below
them.
"Well, here's Rupert; you can begin on him."
"Nothing would give me greater pleasure!" said Rupert's sister
vindictively. "A great teasing, squabbling baby! Oh, how I hate fools!
and they are both fools!--Oh, there you are, Rupert," a well-simulated
blandness invading her voice; "and what's Fanny Fitz doing?"
"She's trying to do a Mayo man over a horse-deal," replied Mr. Rupert
Gunning.
"A horse-deal!" repeated Mrs. Spicer incredulously. "Fanny buying a
horse! Oh, impossible!"
"Well, I don't know about that," said Mr. Gunning, "she's trying pretty
hard. I gave her my opinion--"
"I'll take my oath you did," observed