his Riverence, patting the baste’s neck. “I’ll give you a bit of a lift with the bridle-rein, and a touch like that on the flank, and do you clear it, my swallow-bird.”
Well, sir, the priest riz in his stirrups, lifted the rein, and Terror crouched for the spring, whin, with a sudden snort of pain, the baste whirled round and started like the wind back up the road.
His Riverence pulled the horse to its haunches and swung him round once more facing the cottage. Up on his hind feet went Terror and stood crazy for a second, pawing the air, then with a cry of rage and pain in his throat, the baste turned, made a rush for the hedge at the roadside, and cleared it like an arrow.
Now, just beyant the hedge was a bog so thin that the geese wouldn’t walk on it, and so thick that the ducks couldn’t swim in it. Into the middle of that cowld pond Terror fell with a splash and a crash.
That minute the King climbed down from the window splitting with laughter. “Darby,” he says, slapping his knees, “Father Cassidy is floundhering about in the bog outside. He’s not hurt, but he’s mighty cowld and uncomfortable. Do you go and make him
