ON Tuesday, the hunt was at a place near Corofin some twelve miles north of Ennis. It did not take Glenn long to drive there and he found Liam’s car and horse van exactly where he had said they would be, on the narrow street outside the pub. He parked behind them and entered the pub. The bar was a dirty, smoke-stained room with worn-out linoleum on the floor. Liam was standing at the bar with a group of older men. He looked up as the door slammed behind Glenn.

"Well he can’t be all bad," said one of them with a chuckle.

At that moment, three more people in riding clothes came into the bar. There were nods and quiet words of greeting and orders for drinks. A little later, more came in and slowly the bar filled. Despite the great number of people in the room, the volume of the conversation was low and Glenn clearly heard the sound of a truck pull up outside and the distinctive noise of hounds.

Moments later the door opened and Mr. Hennessy the master and Jim Brady the huntsman walked in. They each ordered a Jamesons at the bar and came over to Liam’s group.

"Good morning Liam, I just heard Dolan shouting off his mouth, saying how he is going to relieve you and your American friend of a thousand pounds today. Is that right?" Brady asked, with a wink and motion of his head.

"That is what he thinks. He’s well mounted; I’ll say that for him. But don’t take no notice of him, Glenn will outride him any day of the week."

At that moment, Dolan came into the room. He went up to the bar and in a loud voice said, "Give me a hot whisky and drinks all round for the lads, Johnny. I’m feeling flush."

"That’s handy. Have you won some more money?" said the barman.

"I’m going to–that is, unless Rourke and his American friend welsh on their bet."

The bar went silent and everyone looked at Liam. Before he could speak, Glenn spoke out. "In the words of the American Quaker, Mr. Dolan. ‘Fuck thee.’"