Jerry Blake and young Brown were greatly amusing themselves at
the exhibition, and every now and then gave him a word or two of
encouragement, praising his mare, telling how well he got over that
last fence, and bidding him mind and keep well forward. This was all
new to Barry, and he really began to feel himself in his element;--if
it hadn't been for those abominable walls, he would have enjoyed
himself. But this was too good to last, and before very long he made a
_faux pas_, which brought down on him in a torrent the bottled-up wrath
of the viscount.

They had been galloping across a large, unbroken sheep-walk, which
exactly suited Barry's taste, and he had got well forward towards the
hounds. Frank was behind, expostulating with Jerry Blake and the others
for encouraging him, when the dogs came to a small stone wall about two
feet and a half high. In this there was a broken gap, through which
many of them crept. Barry also saw this happy escape from the grand
difficulty of jumping, and, ignorant that if he rode the gap at all, he
should let the hounds go first, made for it right among them, in spite
of Frank's voice, now raised loudly to caution him. The horse the man
rode knew his business better than himself, and tried to spare the
dogs which were under his feet; but, in getting out, he made a slight
spring, and came down on the haunches of a favourite young hound called
"Goneaway"; he broke the leg close to the socket, and the poor beast
most loudly told his complaint.

This was too much to be borne, and Frank rode up red with passion; and
a lot of others, including the whipper, soon followed.

"He has killed the dog!" said he. "Did you ever see such a clumsy,
ignorant fool? Mr Lynch, if you'd do me the honour to stay away another