"'Tis her ladyship's Rile Imperial Mascot Goat," says I; "an' God save your
honour for she'll have your blood in a bottle for this day's worrk."
The huntsman lets a curse out of his stummick and rides afther them, flat
on his saddle, both spurs tearin'. In the wink of an eye he is down among
the dogs, larruppin' them with his whip and drawin' down curses on them
that would wither ye to hear him--he had great eddication, that orficer.
"Come now," says I to Mikeen, the poor lad, "let you and me bear the cowld
corpse of the diseased back to Herself; mebbe she'll have a shillin' handy
in her hand, the way she'd reward us for saving the body from the dogs,"
says I.
But was me bowld mascot dead? He was not. He was alive and well, the
thickness of his wool had saved him. For all that he had not a hair of it
left to him, and when he stood up before you you wouldn't know him; he was
that ordinary without his fleece, he was no more than a common poor man's
goat, he was no more to look at than a skinned rabbit, and that's the
truth.
He walked home with meself and Mikeen as meek as a young gerrl.
Herself came runnin' out, all fluttery, to look at him.
"Ah, but that's not _my_ mascot," says she.
"It is, Marm," says I; and I swore to it by the whole Calendar--Mikeen too.
"Bah! how disgustin'. Take it to the cow-house," says she, and stepped
indoors without another word.
We led the billy away, him hangin' his head for shame at his nakedness.
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