He asked the
waiter for the reason of it all, and the waiter was an astonished man
that there should be any man in this world who did not know it.
"Shure it's the Dunsloe horse fair, your honour--the greatest
horse-fair in all Oireland. It lasts for a wake, and the folk come from
far an' near--from England an' Scotland an' iverywhere. If you look out
of the winder, your honour, you'll see the horses, and it's asy your
honour's conscience must be, or you wouldn't slape so sound that the
creatures didn't rouse you with their clatter."
Dodds had a recollection that he had heard a confused murmur, which had
interwoven itself with his dreams--a sort of steady rhythmic beating and
clanking--and now, when he looked through the window, he saw the cause
of it. The square was packed with horses from end to end--greys, bays,
browns, blacks, chestnuts--young ones and old, fine ones and coarse,
horses of every conceivable sort and size. It seemed a huge function
for so small a town, and he remarked as much to the waiter.
"Well, you see, your honour, the horses don't live in the town, an' they
don't vex their heads how small it is. But it's in the very centre of
the horse-bradin' districts of Oireland, so where should they come to be
sould if it wasn't to Dunsloe?" The waiter had a telegram in his hand,
and he turned the address to Worlington Dodds.
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