TABLE of CONTENTS

CHAPTER I—HOW PATSEY RAFFLED THE MILCH COW

CHAPTER II—HOW PATSEY LOST HIS MEMORY

CHAPTER Ill—HOW PATSEY FORGOT THE PISHOGUE

CHAPTER IV—HOW PATSEY PLAYED WITH DYNAMITE

CHAPTER V—HOW PATSEY EMPLOYED THE IRON MAN

CHAPTER VI—HOW PATSEY CHEATED THE DEVIL

CHAPTER VII—HOW PATSEY FOUND A SWEETHEART

CHAPTER VIII—HOW PATSEY MADE TRUE LOVE RUN SMOOTH

CHAPTER IX—HOW PATSEY MADE THE BIG BEAR COMMIT SUICIDE

CHAPTER X—HOW PATSEY MET THE GRAND LADY

CHAPTER XI—HOW PATSEY MET THE FINE GENTLEMAN

CHAPTER XII—HOW PATSEY CAUGHT THE LEPRECHAUN

CHAPTER I

HOW PATSEY RAFFLED THE MILCH COW

As a small boy in the small town of Killclogher in the West of Ireland, I first heard the exploits of ‘Patsey the Omadaun. There was a tailor’s shop in the town, where three men sat cross-legged on a table and stitched and talked the busy hours away.

The room was a low-roofed garret, the table of rough deal, the air moist and stuffy, with the smell of the cloth that steamed under the hot ‘goose.’ The needles went swift and restless all day long, and under those quick fingers the rough cloth shaped itself miraculously into rough garments. But quicker and more restlessly than their needles their tongues went Old Peter Rattigan, of the fat, yellow face, the thick lips, and the small, twinkling, humorous eyes, was a born story-teller; and Darby Fathy and little Mickey Costigan could hould their own,’ as they modestly expressed it, in most companies.

The stories were the strangest jumble of the impossible and the commonplace—of fairies, and kings, and princes, and the ordinary folk to be met with at fair and market—of simplicity and cunning, of wild adventure, and of everyday life; all told with an absolute good faith that enforced belief in the mind of an imaginative child.

Homer or Shakespeare had never a more attentive or admiring auditor than had Peter Rattigan, the story-teller, in my ten-year-old self. His stories were a bewildering delight to me. I would ‘mitch ’ from school—that was nothing; I would abandon the playground when the game was at its keenest, trout-fishing in the river, bird’s-nesting in the woods, just to sit cross-legged on the table in that stuffy garret, and listen reverently to the adventures of ‘Patsey the Omadaun ’ from the lips of old Peter Rattigan.

Up to this hour ‘Patsey the Omadaun ’ is to me a being more real and fascinating than Robinson Crusoe; but I can hardly hope to convey any of that fascination to others. The quaint phrases, the mellow brogue, the smack of the thick lips, the twinkle of the humorous eyes which lent life to the stories of Peter Rattigan, are wanting. Yet I would fain persuade myself that the characteristic humour of some of Patsey’s exploits has not wholly evaporated in my bald translation.

I well remember the first appearance of Patsey the Omadaun in the legends of Peter Rattigan. On a fine summer’s day I had basely deserted a cricket match in which I was in honour bound to fag out, for the stuffy tailor’s garret ‘You’re heartily welcome, sonny,’ said Peter— I think Peter was flattered by enthusiasm—‘why don’t you wipe a clane spot with the ould breeches for Master Watty, Mickey Costigan. What kind of an omadaun are you at all at all? ’

.‘Sure I’m wipin’ it me best, and there’s no need for you to be goin’ on that ways, callin’ people out of their names. I’m no omadaun, I tell you that plain, Peter Rattigan, nor anyone belongin’ to me, what’s more.’

‘Indeed, then, now it’s yourself that’s particular. Omadaun inagh! ’Troth thim that’s better than ever you war or will be was proud of the name. Listen here to me now. Did ye ever hear tell of Patsey the Omadaun? ’

None of us ever heard tell of Patsey the Omadaun. The name struck on our attentive ears for the first time. Whether he had revived that moment in Peter’s memory or was born in his imagination, to this hour I cannot tell ‘He didn’t live in this parish, nor the next parish to it,’ Peter began, his voice dropping at once into the swing-song of the story-teller. Let me add in passing that this vague location was as near as we ever got to the residence of his hero. ‘He was a fine, laughey boy to look at,’ Peter continued without a pause, ‘and as strong as another, and the best warrant in the country side to lep or to hurdle, and be no manes backward at a dance with the girls, who med their own of him entirely.’

‘Where did I hear tell of him, is it? Faith, Mickey Costigan, emock, if ye kept your mouth shut and your ears open you’d be a dale better company. ’Twas curiosity killed a cat that has nine lives to your wan. Fair and aisy, avic, goes far in the day. How did I hear tell of him? Troth I like that, and him and me seventh cousins wanst removed be the mother’s side.’

After that there was no more questioning, and the current of Peter’s story flowed smooth and easy.

‘Well, as I was sayin’ when that unmannerly gossoon tuck the word out of me mouth, Patsey was wake In the mind as he was strong in the body. The schoolmaster could get no good of him at all at all He could stumble through a story book right enough, but the back of his hand he gave ’rithmetic or jorgraphy. But for all that he’d make no mistake in the change of a shillin’, and he could find his way round the country blindfold.

Patsey the Omadaun ” the neighbours called him when he was only a weeny little gossoon, and the name stuck to him first and last ‘He was as good a son as ever stepped in shoe leather or walked barefut, living all be himself with his ould widow of a mother in a cabin that a dacint pig would turn up the ring in his nose at Five acres of bad land was the length and breadth of the houldin’, and there was nothin’ to keep a bit to their mouths or a stitch to their backs but what Patsey could knock out of it with his own four bones and a spade.’

‘Well, me dears, the boy’s mother died; and after that the cow, and he near brack his heart after the ould mother that was no use to him, and sorra hair he cared about the ould cow that he was dependent on for the sup of milk and bit of butter to keep the life in him.’

“Sure that showed the foolishness of the Omadaun all out,’ said Foxey Regan. Ye’ll be askin’ me next who might Foxey Regan be whin be was at home. Well, thin, he was nothin’ but an ould bachelor, as wizened and wrinkled as a crab apple at Christmas time, and a dale bitterer to the taste. But he’d the neighbours under his thumb, for he was a gombeen man and richer nor the Jews, and the cutest man in them parts, and no one liked him, and no one dare say agin him, an’ “thrue for you, Mr. Regan,” and “you’re quite right, Mr. Regan,” was the word out of their mouths, no matter what he said, good or bad.

‘Me poor Patsey berried his mother dacint, and spent the last penny he had on the wake, and you may be sure me bould Foxey Regan was to the fore drinkin’ the porther and smokin’ the baccy of the deceased with a hard word and a sour laugh for the livin’ and the dead.

‘Well, me dear, Patsey wint back to his work as if nothing had happened, and afther a while ye could hear him singin’ and whistlin’ in the face of his spade as clear and sweet as a blackbird in the spring time.

‘One evenin’ in May he had knocked off work and was takin’ a walk be himself between the dusk an’ the dark, when who do ye think he saw but purty Biddy Maguire, and she sittin’ on a three-legged stool milkin’ and singin’ to her cow sweet and low as a mother sings to her sleepin’ child, while the milk plashin’ in the pail kept time to the music.

‘Now, I must tell ye that purty Biddy Maguire was the only daughter of ould Rory Maguire, the strongest fanner in these parts, and a hard man to make or meddle with. Bedad the talk wint that even Foxey Regan himself couldn’t get the better of him in a bargain. Purty Biddy Maguire had bright eyes of her own, and the use of them, too, most times. But it was a quare thing that she never saw light or sight of Patsey walkin’ towards her fair and aisy up the breast of the hill with his back to the red sunset ‘She gave a terrible start intirely whin he leant over the stile and called to her in a whisper: “God bless the work, Miss Maguire.” Up she jumped from her sate, frightened-like, at the first wind of the word.

“Oh, is that you, Mr. O’Rourke? Faith you near tuck the life out of me stalin’ up on a body that quiet Me heart is batin’ yit, if you were to feel it”

‘She looked purtier than ever with her wan hand to her side, pantin’ and smilin’ and showin’ a fine set of teeth, God bless thim, through a pair of lips that were red and smooth as the haws in the autumn, and a dale sweeter to taste, ’an maybe Patsey thought that same to himself many a time, though he never let on. For a purty colleen—’

‘Get along with your story, ye ould sinner, ye,’ interjected Darby Fathy; and Peter got along with his story.

“‘I only sed, God bless the work, Miss Maguire,” sez Patsey.

“An’ you too, Patsey, and that kindly,” sez Biddy Maguire.

‘I may as well tell you now as afterwards that girls far and near had a great “grah” for Patsey and, indeed, barrin’ his foolishness, he was the best looking boy in them parts.

‘Purty Biddy Maguire’s voice was soft as a courtin’ pigeon’s in the spring time when she answered him back, and her eyes looked into his as she spoke. Her’s were dark blue, like the flowers hidin’ in the bank, and his were light blue, like the summer sky overhead, and that was all the differ between them.

“That’s a fine laughey cow you are milkin’, Miss Maguire,” sez Patsey the next minute.

Faix, ye may well say that, Patsey; me dad bought her last Saturday week at the fair of Killanail, and there’s not her equal for milk in the whole country-side. Thirty quarts of milk a day she gives, not a tint less. But sure, ye can’t see her right at all at all from the far side of the stile.”

‘With that me bowld Patsey put one hand on the pillar of the stile and lept it clane and clever, though it was very near as tall as himself.

‘Biddy stood up from her stool to welcome him. There was a blush on her cheek and a sly look out of the comer of her eyes drat might warm the heart of a wheelbarrow.

‘For all that she was in a fine calico dress, and him in his rags, they were as fine a couple as ever sat courtin’ on a summer’s evenin’, with no wan to keep an eye on them but an ould milch cow. Maybe that same thought was in the colleen’s head at the time. Who is it can tell what the colleens does be thinkin’ about?

‘But Patsey kep’ on never mindin’, and had eyes only for the cow instead of the colleen.

Faith, if he never aimed this name of the Omadaun before that, he aimed it thin.

“It’s a fine baste intirely, Miss Maguire,” was all he’d to say for himself ‘“It’s yerself ought to be a good judge of brute bastes, Mr. O’Rourke.” She answered him back so cross that she frightened him.

‘Did ye ever see a quiet cratur’ of a cow that gets a skelp for nothin’ at all? That was the kind of look that came in his eyes, and the cross word wasn’t well out of her mouth when she was sorry for it “Might I milk her for you a drop or two? ” says he, after a minute.

“Thank ye kindly for the offer,” she said, “for it’s tired I am in the fingers.”

‘If Patsey was wake in the head itself, he was mighty clever in the hands. There was no man’s work—nor woman’s work, for that matter—that he wasn’t up to; from ploughin’ and diggin’ and mowin’ and rapin’ down to spinnin’ and knittin’, all was wan to him; there was nothin’ he couldn’t put his hand to. He could “turn the heel ” of a stockin’ with any ould woman in the parish, and he was the grandest warrant in the world to milk.

Bedad it came in a stream between his fingers, splashin’ like a small waterfall, till the two big pails were brimmin’ over with white foam. He tuck them both up as light as a feather and carried them back to the house, while Biddy walked beside him with the three-legged stool tucked under her arm.

Patsey put the pails down close to the high wall beside Rory Maguire’s “haggard.” It was as much as his life was worth for ould Rory to catch him next or near the place.

‘“Thank you kindly, Mr. O’Rourke,” said Biddy. “I’ll take them in meself: it’s only a step from this to the house.”

Patsey scratched his curly head that was the colour of whate straw, and stood from one foot to the other like a tired goose, and with that the colleen saw he had something on his mind, and put down the pails again and waited, and watching him.

“Miss Maguire,” he sez, at last ‘“Well, what is it Mr. O’Rourke?”

‘“Might I make so bowld as to ask a favour of you?”

‘“And why not and welkim, Patsey.” She turned her head a little away as she said it and that was his chance. Faith, it was true for the neighbours to say he was an otnadaun, and sorra haporth else.

•« Would you lend me the loan of that cow for three milkin’s? ”

<« What? ” She faced round sharp, but at the innocent look of the cratur’s face, and him in rags and fathers, the anger in her melted into pity on the mortal spot “I’m afeared me father would miss her about the place,” she said; “but sure, I’ll risk that same.”

“There’s no risk at all at all,” sez Patsey. “Sure’s it’s only at milkin’ time I’d be askin’ a loan of her, and I’d bring cow and milk home safe to you afterwards.”

“What would you be wantin’ the cow for that ways? ’’ sez Biddy, the woman’s curiosity gettin’ the better of her.

‘“That id be tellin’,” sez Patsey; “’tis a kind of pishogue I have in it to try me luck, and tellin would spoil it on me”

‘For all the omadaun he was, that was the wan way in the world to put her from more questionin’.

“Have it yer own way thin,” she says. “The cow and the milkin’ pails will be there for you any evenin’ you want them.”

‘“Might I make use of a quart or so of the milk wanst in a way? ”

‘“And why not and welkim. Sure there’s lashin’s and lavin’s.”

“Faith, it’s kind intirely of you to trust me with that fine baste iv a cow, Miss Maguire.”

“I’d trust you wid more than that, Patsey,” sez she; and she was red as a poppy in a cornfield as she said it ‘But Patsey the Omadaun took no heed of her, but med off with himself, whistlin’ in a way to make a skylark cut his throat with envy, and me poor Biddy watered the milk with a tear that was fit to turn a windmill before she tuck it into the house.

‘But sure, ever and always, love was contrary with the boys and the girls. Me own heart was brack in me buzzum be the dint of it whin I was only a gossoon-like.’

Peter here pretended to weep over his early love sorrows, and dried his eyes in the seat of an old pair of breeches he was patching, until Darby roused him to the realities of life by a touch of a needle point in the plumpest part of his person.

“Lave your foolin’,” said Darby, ‘and get on with the story.’

‘For three straws I’d have you swallow the goos,” retorted Peter; ‘but sure that would be makin’ a cannibal of you. Where was I, boys, before that ignoramus misdemaned himself with the needle? ’

‘Goin’ home with Patsey the Omadaun,’ prompted Mickey, who was following the story with open-mouthed interest ‘Aye, bedad. Well, me dears, it was only a short time after that when the story got out through the village that Patsey had the finest milch cow that ever you clapt eyes on.

‘’Twas all the talk down in Foxey Regan’s public-house, for I must tell you that Foxey Regan had many ways of rowlin’ in the money, and a public-house was the best of them.

“With me own eyes I saw it,” said Christy Clougherty, the drunken carpenter. “She milked sixty quarts if she milked a naggin, and all of the best Faith I tasted a small drop meself, and it’s more crame than milk was in it”

‘“Troth, you’d find it hard to tell the differ, Christy emock,” said wan of the neighbours, “sure It’s very little that crame or milk does be troublin’ you, be all accounts.”

Pay no heed to him, Christy,” sez another; “sure he never wint to school where good manners were lamt But tell us, avic, where did Patsey the Qmadaun get the milch cow? ”

“Sorra wan of me knows,” sez Christy, “unless he got it out of the fairies, the Lord betune us and harm. They say the good people have a fine breed of cattle intirely.”

When the talk turns on the good people there’s no stoppin’ it, and wan story borried another until you’d think that poor Patsey and his fine milk cow was clane forgottin’ be company very near.-‘But faith it wasn’t so with four of them any ways. The schoolmaster was wan, and two hard fisted fanners be the name of Andy Brennan and Owen Connolly was another, and me bowld Foxey Regan was the last and the cutest of the lot. They med up their minds, each man for himself, that he’d have a peep at this wonderful milch cow of Patsey the Omadaun.

‘So, me dears, each took his turn on the sly to stand trate to Christy Clougherty, and to get out of him the hour of the evenin’ that Patsey did the milkin’ of the cow in the little yard beside his cabin.

‘Maybe Patsey thought it a quare thing, and maybe he didn’t, that just as he was milkin’ Rory Maguire’s milch cow the next evenin’ ould Foxey Regan should drop in on him by way of no harm.

“God save you, Patsey,” sex Foxey Regan.

“God save you kindly,” sez Patsey. But he thought in his own mind it was a hard job he was settn’ in that “That’s a nice cow you have there,” sez Foxey Regan.

“Troth an’ she’s not too bad,” sez Patsey.

“Tell me now,” began Foxey Regan, when who should walk in on top of them but the schoolmaster and Andy Brennan, and Owen Connolly streel-ing after him as wan sheep follows another through a gap.

“Haunna mon doul, man, what brings you here at all? ” sez Foxey Regan to Andy Brennan.

‘“Faith ’twas the same question I was going to ask yourself, Mr. Regan, the moment I laid eyes on you. You’re not much of a visitin’ man, be all accounts.”

‘Owen Connolly stood back from them both, smoulderin’ like a fire of wet turf. He was a down-lookin’ man the best of times, and a born divil when he was riz, and faith one and the other thought it the best of their play nayther to make nor meddle with him.

Patsey went on with his milkin’ as if there was no one there at all at all. The warm milk splashed and foamed in the deep pail, and the white foam mounted and mounted up the side of it, and the boyoes stood there watchin’ and wonderin’ and not knowin’ how to come at the thing they had in their minds to say.

‘Patsey took a mug from the dresser and dipped it into the foamin’ milk, and handed it with a duck of his head to the schoolmaster.

“Sure a small drop warm from the cow will do you no harm,” he said.

‘The schoolmaster took a short drink, wiped the top of the mug with his sleeve, and passed it on to his neighbour.

‘Foxey Regan, who was the last, contrived to draw poor Patsey, who was following the mug, into a corner be himself.

“Whisper here to me, Patsey,” he sez. “That cow doesn’t suit the like of you at all at all.”

‘Now, anyone but a fool would see that Foxey Regan didn’t want the talk to go further than themselves two. But nothing would plaze me innocent Patsey, like the omadaun he was, but to bawl out loud enough for the parish to hear: “Troth, that’s the true word for you, Mr. Regan. Sure me heart is brack, and me life isn’t me own milkin’ her. You might as well be at the face of a pump.”

“Maybe you’d be wishful to sell her—spake aisy, Patsey? ”

But sure, Patsey hadn’t sense enough to heed him.

“Sell her—is it? ” he bawled out at the top of his voice. “Troth, an’ I’d do that same with a heart and a half if I could find anyone fool enough to buy her off me.”

“Would a five-pound note be in your way? ” whispered Foxey Regan, with his eye round the corner like his namesake, when he’s prowlin afther a goose and is afraid the dogs are on their way.

“Five pounds is a dale of money,” said Patsey. “I hope you aren’t wrongin’ yourself in offerin’ it, Mr. Regan? ”

Bedad, at this me other three ooyoes couldn’t stand it no longer.

‘“Patsey, me boughal,” sez the schoolmaster, “you’re as great a gom now as when I licked you over your ABC. Sure five pounds is no price at all for your fine baste of a cow. I’ll give you six pounds meself for luck, though I have no use for the like of her.”

“Faith, I’ll raise you a pound there, school master,” sez Andy Brennan.

“I’ll give eight pounds for the cow myself,” sez Owen Connolly, “and who’s goin’ to say agin it?”

‘He looked that wicked as he said it, with a thick lump of a blackthorn in his fist, that, troth, none of them liked to bid agin him.

‘But the schoolmaster was not to be done “Neighbours, neighbours,” he said; “we are not goin’ to quarrel over a cow. Let Dame Fortune decide between and betwixt us.”

“I dunno what you are drivin’ at, with your dam fortune,” sez Owen Connolly, sulkily.

“Toss up for it,” sez Andy Brennan.

“Draw lots,” sez the schoolmaster, “after the manner of the ould ainshints, who were wiser than ever we’ll be. Patsey, emock, get me four straws.”

‘Faix, they were all on at wanst for a bit of a gamble, and so they let themselves be said be the schoolmaster. You’d think he was in the middle of his class, the way the big language came out of him. I wish I had the teamin’ to tell you all the fine words he said, but the plain talk of it was this ways.

“Patsey, emock,” sez he, “get me four straws,” sez he, “three short and one long. We mil aich of us hand Patsey a five pound note,” sez he, “and the man that draws the long straw takes the cow,” sez he.

‘Five pounds was a date of money, you’ll be sayin’, to risk that ways, but the schoolmaster had a raison of his own to be plazin’ to Patsey, and sorra wan of the others would say agin it ‘Well, me dears, the four straws were aisily got, and Patsey bit the ends off three of them. Then aich wan of the four boys came up to me bowld Patsey with his five pound ready and all The schoolmaster was the first, and as he passed the note to Patsey, he showed him a gold soverin in the heel of bis fist, and tipped him a wink, and Patsey winked back to him be way of no harm, and with that the soverin went from the schoolmaster’s hand to Patsey’s as nate as you plaze.

Well, if you belave me, every mother’s son of them did the like when their chance came, and Patsey had the same pleasant wink for every wan of them, and each med sure in his own mind that the long straw was coming to himself, and the fine cow after it But, sure, the straw could only come to wan of them in the long run, and the schoolmaster was the lucky wan, for Patsey kep’ it for him to the last ‘With that all the boyoes went off with themselves, cursin’ find swearin’ with the dint of disappointment Patsey and the schoolmaster was left standing alone with the cow, which was chewin’ the cud for herself, and payin’ no heed to any wan of them.

“’Twas yourself that was always a good and dacint boy, Patsey,” sez the schoolmaster, well plazed with himself; and why not, as he fingered the long straw, with his eye on the fine milch cow that he thought he’d made his own of for a matter of six pounds.

“Them wasn’t the words that was out of your mouth always,” sez Patsey; “it was the birch rod you had for me ever and always in the old days.”

“Nabocklish, Patsey,” sez the schoolmaster, “where’s the good of talkin’ or thinkin’ of things that are past and done for? Troth, you did the job finely, and we both have raison to be plazed with our bargain, for you’ve got a good price, and I’ve got a good cow, and all them shavers that thought the devil and all of themselves for cuteness, are gone away empty.”

“‘Sure I’m glad you’re so aisily plazed,” sez Patsey.

“It’s time for me to be goin’,” sez the schoolmaster.

“Good-night and good luck to you,” sez Patsey.

“Troth, I’ve the good luck anyways,” sez the schoolmaster, with a laugh out of him. So with that he took to loosen the cow to drive her off home with himself.

‘“What are you doin’ with the cow?” sez Patsey, just the same as if there had been never any talk of a lottery at all at all.

“Loosenin’ her,” sez the schoolmaster.

“What for? ” sez Patsey.

“To bring her home with me, in course,” sez the schoolmaster.

“‘Faith, I like that,” sez Patsey the Omadaun, letting a big laugh out himself, “to bring Rory Maguire’s milch cow home with you.”

‘Begor, you could have knocked the schoolmaster down with a feather when he heard the word.

‘“What do you mane,” sez he, “you omadaun? ” sez he, in a wake kind of a whisper.

“I mane what I say. Sure you always taught me to spake plain English.”

“Is it that the cow wasn’t yours? ”

The sorra hair of her ever.”

“Oh! you lyin’, chatin’, thievin’ rogue of the world! What tempted you to say that you owned her?”

“I never sed the like,” Patsey med answer to him, as bowld as a line. “Sure the whole of you came flocking round die place where nobody axed you, wantin’ to buy the cow that ould Rory Maguire sent down of an evenin’ to my little place to milk her, knowin’ I’m a good hand at that same.”

“Is that true, Patsey? ” sez the schoolmaster, gaspin’.

“As thrue as Gospel.”

“But why did you preffer to sell her? ”

I didn’t preffer to sell her; ’twas yourselves that preffered to buy her. Sure I didn’t think anyone’d be that mane to go offer five or six pounds to a poor boy for a cow worth twenty and more. But so long as the cow wasn’t mine the price didn’t matter, big or little. Then when you got up a play for yourselves, with a lottery, and bits of straw, what call had I to say agin it? ”

‘The schoolmaster looked hard at him, and Patsey looked him back with round, innocent blue eyes, as simple as a one-year-old calf.

“Patsey,” he sez, in a soothin’ tone.

“Yis, sir,” sez Patsey, for all the world as if he were answerin’ his name in class.

“Of course you know the money comes to me instead of the cow, seein’ as how I won the lottery,” sez he.

“Of course, sir,” sez Patsey, with his hand in his pocket, and the schoolmaster med sure on the moment he had the money safe in his fist “But” sez Patsey out of a thought, “I must ask the other gintlemin first if they are agreeable to that.”

“You are in no ways obligated to do so,” sez the schoolmaster, who guessed what id be the answer to that question. “Sure they have no claim to the money at all at all. If the cow was your own to raffle the money was lost to them all the same. Sorra hair’s differ it makes to them whether there was a cow in it at all or not”

You think that sir?” sez Patsey.

“I’m sure of it,” sez the schoolmaster.

“Then, bedad,. I’m thinkin’ I’ll keep the money for myself, that it was give to, and that wants it more nor any of you. Here’s your own six pounds back to you and a pound for luck for gettin’ up the lottery. That’s good pay, I’m thinkin’, for an aisy hour’s work, so you can’t say you’re chated anyways. The others lost their money fairly in a lottery, and are not askin’ for it back. Sorra difference it makes to thim whose the cow was, seein’ they didn’t win her. So, bedad, there’s no owner left for the rest of the money only meself.”

“‘Would you chate me out of me winnin’s, Patsey? ” sez the schoolmaster.

“Faith it was Rory Maguire’s cow you won, if you won anythin’, and you may say what you have to say to him over it”

‘Bedad, me dears, the long and short of it was that the schoolmaster tuck his seven pounds, and glad to get it he was. For he knew the neighbours would laugh his head off if the story got out on him. But Patsey was ready enough to promise he’d never whisper a word of it “And that’s the boy,” sez the schoolmaster to himself on his way home, feelin’ his money in his pocket, and thinkin’ of the other three laddos that had such consait out of themselves, “that’s the same boy we used to be callin’ an omadaun at school! Omadaun, inagh! ” ’

CHAPTER II

HOW PATSEY LOST HIS MEMORY

I SHOULD have been at school I know that, of course. It was Peter Rattigan that tempted me. But there were five minutes to spare, five long, interminable minutes, and I could not resist the temptation as I passed the well-known door to rush up the steep, rickety staircase and have a peep at the paradise from which I was excluded by the foolish grown-up belief that stupid lessons were good for little boys. I was resolved that I would only stay there for that precious five minutes that I had stolen from my dressing and washing that morning (especially from my washing), to spend it in paradise; but fate, in the form of Peter Rattigan, was too much for me.

‘Sit down, emock,’ he said, and dusted a place for me politely on the board with the tail of a half-made ‘cotha more. “Ah, then, where’s your hurry? Sure the school will be there afther you.”

Fair and aisy goes far in the day, and you’ve yer time before you.

‘Tell you a story, is it, if you wait? Troth, an’ it’s jokin’ me you are, Master Watty. What would a fine scholar like yersel’ be carin’ for foolish “ramashe ” from the likes of me? Well, then, if you want wan, you must have it Pass me the goose, will you, Mickey Costigan, you bosthoon. What are you grinnin’ at? Have you no respect for your elders?

You want me to tell you, sonny, what happened to Patsey the Omadaun? That’s a short question, Master Watty, with a long answer to it Troth an many a thing happened to him. If I wor talkin’ from this till to-morrow I couldn’t tell you the half of them. But wan at a time, like sheep through a gap, gets them all out at last.

You’ll remember how I told you he took the shine out of ould Foxey Regan? Well, me dear, Foxey Regan wasn’t the man to lie down under the like of that, and him thinkin’ himself the cutest man in the country-side, to be done out of his good-lookin’ six pounds by an omadaun.

‘He was thinkin’ ever and always how he’d get the money back off poor Patsey.’

‘So wan fine evenin’, it might be a week afther, and it might be a month, Foxey, be way of no harm, strolled up with himself fair and aisy to Patsey’s little cabin on the breast of the hill. He found the boy in, and him knittin’ a pair of stockin’s all as wan as an ould “collagh ” be the fireside.

‘“God bless the work,” sez Foxey Regan, standin’ at the half door, and lookin’ in.

“You too,” sez Patsey the Omadaun. “Won’t you come in, Mr. Regan,” he sez, “and draw down for an air of the fire? You’ll be takin’ a mug of new milk,” sez he, as innocent as you plaze, “ and you after your long walk, an’ it up hill and all.”

‘Troth, if you belave me, Foxey Regan made a quare face at the mention of the word milk. But for a raison he had of his own he never sed a word agin it, but drew a creepy stool to the fire and sat himself down on it, and finished off the mug at wan pull. Then he let a big moan out of himself, for all the world like a cow that’d be late in the milkin’.

“Ah, thin, what’s the matter with you, Mr. Regan? ” sez Patsey, “if wan may make so bowld as to ax you.”

“I’m in sore trouble, Patsey,” sez Foxey Regan, “an’ that’s what’s on me, if you want to know.”

“What trouble could be on a warm man like yourself?” sez Patsey again; “and you with nayther chick nor child to look to you for the bit or the sup.”

‘“That’s the foolish talk the naybours do be havin’,” Foxey Regan made answer. “Sorra wan copper is left to me,” sez he, “to jingle on a tombstone. True enough, there’s a hundred pound cornin’ to me be the end of the week, and it’s a poor case and a hard matter that I should be ruined all out for the want of a fi’-pun-note at the present time.”

‘He gev wan look sideways at Patsey as he sed it, for all the world like his namesake watchin’ a fat goose through the gate of the farmyard; and he took heart of grace from the innocent look on the face of me poor omadaun.

“I was thinkin’ meybe you’d lend me the loan of a five-pound note out of the money you won off us in the lottery, Patsey, over the milch cow. It was the schoolmaster that med well of her, anyways, I’m thinkin’.”

‘Patsey never sed a word, good nor bad, and Foxey comes at him agin.

“I’d be given it back to you in a week’s time or less, meybe, and another pound at the back of it, and me blessin’ at the back of that agin, if you’d lend it to me at wanst,” sez he.

“And why not and welkim,” sez Patsey, out of a thought; and, without another word, up with him and goes to the dresser and takes a five-pound note out of the ould taypot and puts it into the heel of ould Foxey’s fist “I hope it’ll bring luck,” sez Patsey, as he gave it; but he didn’t say who the luck was to be for.

‘“I hope so,” sez Foxey Regan back again to him; but he little thought he was prayin’ agin himself when he sed it ‘There was little doin’ or sayin’ for a week after that, an’ no talk at all of givin’ back the five pounds.

When another week had gone by without tale or tidings of his money, Patsey made bowld to call on Foxey Regan, and him sittin’ all be himself in his parlour within.

“God save you,” sez Patsey.

‘“God save you kindly,” sez Foxey Regan, lookin’ up from his newspaper, as much as to say, What brings you here?

“I was cornin’ about the money,” sez Patsey.

“What money are you talkin’ about, me good man?” sez Foxey Regan lettin’ on there was great surprise on him at the mention of the word.

“The five pounds I lent you,” sez Patsey.

“Is it drainin’ you are? ” sez Foxey Regan. “An’ what would I be wantin’ of your dirty five pounds?” sez he. “I have enough of me own,” he sez.

‘With that Patsey up and towld him the whole story out of a face, how he kem for the lend of the loan of the money, and how he tuck it out of the ould taypotto give it to him, and how he promised to give it back be the end of the week with another pound to the back of it “I’m not surprised,” sez he, in the heel of the hunt “that a small trifle like that” sez he, “would go clane out of your head,” sez he, “but you’ll be rememberin’ it now,” sez he.

“What sort of ramashe are you talkin’ at all,” sez Foxey Regan, “with your ould taypots and your five-pound notes? What call have I to yourself or your dirty money. Troth, an’ it’s no lie,” sez he, “to call you an omadaun,” sez he, “and the quare notions you have in your foolish head. Go home, me poor boy,” he sez, “and try to laim sense.”

“An’ you won’t pay me the money? ” sez Patsey.

“The sorra farthing,” sez the other.

“‘Then I’ll have a try to make you,” sez Patsey, getting dangerous.

‘“See here,” sez Foxey, edgin’ round to the other side of the table, “there’s no sense in that kind of talk at all at all, only to get yerself into trouble. I’d be sorry to be hard on a poor innocent omadaun of your kind. But I have good help outside,” sez he, “and if you try any of your ructions here I’ll have you thrun out on your head,” sez he.

‘For wan minnit Foxey Regan was within. the lick of a wattle of the biggest malavoughing that ever a man got But Patsey cooled down on a sudden, like a boiling pot of potatoes when you throw a sup of cold water on it ‘“I beg yer pardon, Mr. Regan,” he sez, as polite as you plaze.

‘“Yer pardon’s granted, Patsey,” sez Foxey Regan. “I thought you’d come to yer senses.”

“An’ you never borrowed five pounds off me? ” sez Patsey.

‘“Not five pounds nor five farthings,” sez Foxey Regan.

‘“Now do you tell me that?” sez Patsey again.

“An’ swear it,” sez me boyo, well plazed at the turn the talk was takin’.

“Well now that’s quare, I was sartin sure of that same.”

“Mebbe the memory is wake with you,” sez Foxey. “People do be gettin’ quare notions into their heads sometimes, but the best way is to keep on never mindin’ and to be said by them that are oulder an’ wiser then yerself.”

“Sure it’s yerself was always the good nay-bour, Mr. Regan, and‘‘the dacint man, and I wouldn’t put it beyant yer word.”

“Indade an’ I’d be long sorry to decave you Patsey, in a matter of the kind.”

“Well, thin, I’ll be sayin’ good day to you, Mr. Regan,” sez Patsey in the long run, “and sorry to trouble you, and thankful I am you wor so aisy goin’ with me in me foolishness. Sure I was always a bit wake in the memory.”

“‘I’m not blamin’ you, Patsey, emock,” sez Foxey Regan; “sure it’s no fault of yours if the memory is wake with you.”

“An’ you won’t be lettin’ on to the naybours, Mr. Regan, the hare I med of meself if it’s plazin’ to you? They’d never have done at me about it ”

‘Faith, then, there was small need to be beggin’ Foxey Regan to keep it dark; but all the same he med a compliment out of it “Sorra a word I’ll spake of it to a sinner, and why should I? Sure, we didn’t make ourselves, any of us, and if you’re a bit wake in the head itself the fault isn’t yours.”

“Well, me dears, Patsey wint back to his cabin through the evenin’ sunshine, whistlin’ for himself, clear and true and light-hearted as a thrush in the spring time. Sorra the smallest taste of disappointment you’d find on him. There was a sparkle in his eye like the glint of the blue sky in runniri’ water, and a quare kind of a smile cornin’ and goin’ in the corners of his mouth.

‘’Twasn’t all the same with Foxey Regan, whom he left alone in the parlour. At first he was well plazed to have med his own of the five pounds, and proud of his own cuteness in the business.

“Faith, an’ it’s no lie,” he thought to himself, “to call him Patsey the Omadaun. Sure he’d belave anything wan ’ud tell him. I was hard set to keep from laughin’ at the foolish cratur. I’d engage, if I wor put to it, to persuade the nose off his face be the dint of palaver. What does the likes of him want with money anyways? No more nor the bastes of the field, that have more sinse nor what he has, any day of the week.”

‘But at the word “money” a thought kem cross-ways to me bowld Foxey that took all the spunk out of him. Much will have more ever and always in this world, and there was a sudden trouble to Foxey in the thought that Patsey the Omadaun had still fifteen pounds left to him in spite of his best ‘“Troth, an’ I was a bigger omadaun nor what he was,” sez Foxey to himself, “to make two bits of a cherry when I got the chance at it He’d as lieve have lint me twenty pounds as five, and would have forgottin it as aisily. There now, I am done out of fifteen pounds be me own kind-hearted foolishness.”

‘Night and day the thought kept naggin’ at him, till at last he had nothing for it but to make up his mind he’d have a try for the fifteen pounds to keep company with the five he had got already.

“What can he do but refuse me,” sez he to himself. “Never venture never win, and fifteen pounds is better with me than with an omadaun of his kind.”

‘After that he med it a habit to be stravagin’ up and down where he’d have a chance to come across Patsey unbeknownst He didn’t want to go to the cabin the second time lest he’d bring the thought of the first visit back to the boy’s mind.

“He was caught wan day In a downpour of rain, and ran for shelter under a big beech tree. But the water was cornin’ out of the sky as if it wor a sieve, and sorra dry stitch was left on him. As he stood there with his back bent and the water runnin’ off him like the roof of a house who should come by but me bowld Patsey in wet rags, and he as brisk and gay as a duck in a pond.

“Fine soft day, Mr. Regan, glory be to God,” he sez, whin he caught sight of me lad shelterin’ and shiverin’ under the tree.

“Bedad, it’s you that are softer than the day,” thought Foxey Regan to himself But out loud he sez,” Patsey, avic, you’re wringin’ wet to the skin, an’ a drop of the hard stuff would do you no harm in life, I’m thinkin’.”

‘‘An’ that’s a true word for you anyways,” sez Patsey.

“If you come along with me,” sez Foxey, “you must have it”

“An’ I’m not sayin’ agin it,” Patsey answered him back.

‘So with that, me dears, the pair of thim wint off with thimselves together, cheek be jowl, through the rain like the best of friends, and it wasn’t long after that they wor sated in front of a good turf fire in Foxey Regan’s bar parlour, and two jorums of punch on the table that would raise the cockles of your heart—and I wouldn’t say agin a drop of that same meself this minnit; but where’s the use of talkin’.

“There they sat for a good while without a word out of thim, aich waiting for the other, sippin’ and thinkin’ at the same time, and warmin’ thimselves inside and out, and the stame of their wet clothes was to match the stame out of the hot punch. They had come to the third tumbler, and the whiskey was drawin’ low in the bottle, whin Foxey med a beginnin’ of what was in his mind from the first ‘“Patsey, me boughal,” sez he, “do you remember the fool’s errand you kem to me on the other day? ”

‘Troth, an’ it’s tryin’ I am to forget it, Mr. Regan, sir, if you’d belave me. It’s ashamed of me own foolishness I am whin I think of it”

“Never mind that now, Patsey,” sez the other. “Sure, I bear you no ill-will in the business, and the best of us might make a mistake; but the talk you had of borrowin’ and tendin’ and the like has put a notion into me head.”

“It’s not often I’m troubled that way meself,” sez Patsey, “and I’d take somethin’ for it if I were you, Mr. Regan.”

“I’d like to do you a good turn, Patsey, if I got the chance.”

“I’m not doubtin’ that at all,” sez Patsey.

“The money you have got up at the house must be a trouble to you? ”

“An’ that’s no lie for you, anyways.”

“You’re lonesome up there all be yerself, an’ it would bfc handy enough for a thief or a robber to make off with the money out of the ould tay-pot.”

‘Bedad, the word taypot was no sooner out of his mouth than he thought of himself, an’ he tried to smother it up in a cough, lettin’ on that a drop of the hot punch had gone the wrong way.

‘But Patsey the Omadaun took no notice, good nor bad, but sat suppin’ his punch as innocent as the babe unborn.

“I’d be willin’ to take good care of the money if you wor to axe me,” Foxey began again, and him red in the face with the dint of the coughin’.

“Bedad, it’s able to take good care of itself, if it’s let alone,” sez Patsey.

“It’s not that I’m wantin’ the money meself,” sez Foxey, with a sly look at him out from under his eyes; “sure it would be foolishness to think or say the like of that, for I could count sovereigns meself with any man in the parish and have wan or two over. But all the same,” sez he, “I could put it to good use for you,” sez he, “and mebbe it’s to double it for you I could in next to no time.”

“Bedad that id be grand intirely,” sez Patsey; “but is it the truth yer tellin’ me, Mr. Regan? ”

‘“The Gospel truth,” sez Foxey, with a laugh to himself at the simplicity of the omadaun.

‘But mockin’ is catchin’, me dears, and there’s many a true word sed in jest, as you’ll find to yer cost, Master Watty, before you’re as ould as what I am.

“But whisper me this, Mr. Regan,” sez Patsey; “if I wanted me own money back in a hurry to buy a cow or the like would it be to the fore whin I wanted it?”

“Ready down on the nail,” sez Foxey, “and there’s me word on it, and may the drop I’m drinkin’ choke me if it’s a lie I’m tellin’ you.”

‘“The money you must have,” sez Patsey, “and me thanks fbr takin’ it, and me hopes is good,” sez he, “that it’ll double itself before it comes back to me.”

“Never doubt it,” sez Foxey Regan, laughin’ to himself at the bare notion. “If it’s convaynient to you I’ll call up early to-morrow and bring it away with me,” sez he.

‘With that they parted both well plazed with themselves, and Patsey went on towards his cabin with a step as light and free as the red deer over the hill side, and Foxey wint back to the parlour and finished the bottle to the last tint in it “I’m well ped for that sup of whiskey anyways,” he sez, laughin’ like mad to himself.

‘There was the schoolmaster with him that evenin’ drinkin’ a wee drop in the same parlour, an’ Andy Brennan an’ Owen Connolly, whin a knock come to the door, and who should walk in on the top of the four of thim but Patsey the Omadaun.

‘Faith, Foxey wasn’t too well plazed to see him there, but he let on to be delighted.

“‘Draw down to the fire,” sez he, “and mix yerselfia drop of drink,” sez he, “sure there’ll be no charge to you.”

‘But Patsey the Omadaun stood at the doorway, shy and frightened like at seein’ the lot of thim in the place.

‘” I come on business, Mr. Regan,” he stammered, “about that money, you know.”

“He’d only got that far whin Foxey dropped a glass with a smash on the Sure, and winked to him behind the others to howld his tongue, and me poor Patsey stopped short in the middle of a word all as wan as if he wor shot ‘“Noneofyer owld talk,” sez Foxey Regan, “but draw down to the fire and take a good ofier when it’s med to you.”

‘But the schoolmaster had quick ears of his own, and good right he had to dale with the gossoons, and he wasn’t willin’ to let it go with ould Foxey without knowin’ the ins and outs of the stoiy.

“What was you sayin’ about money, Patsey?” he axed, whin the boy was sated at the table beside him, with a tumbler fominst him.

“Nothin’ at all—only some foolish ramashe,” sez Foxey Regan.

‘“The boy has a tongue in his mouth to answer for himself,” sez the schoolmaster, as sharp as you plaze. “What was it, Patsey avic? ”

‘“Nothin’ at all, schoolmaster,” sez Patsey; “only Mr. Regan, good luck to him, kindly promised to take charge of me share of money for me, and to double it in next to no time, or to give it back to me whin I axed it off him, and sure here it is for him now,” sez he, showin’ the money in the heel of his fist. Foxey Regan was fit to be tied. He was between two minds whether he’d take the money at all fominst the lot of thim. But he knew it wasn’t lucky to refuse money whin it’s offered to you.

“I was thinkin’ to do the poor omadaun a good turn,” sez he, with a wake kind of a smile, and with that he med as if he’d grab the notes.

‘The schoolmaster let a laugh out of him at the bare notion of Foxey Regan doin’ a good turn to saint or sinner, and he just caught him before he med away with the money.

“Count it,” 9ez he; “count it, me good man. Mebbe it’s too little the boy is givin’ you, and we wouldn’t like to see an innocent cratur of yer kind chated.”

“Aye, count it,” sez Owen Connolly, with a look that was worse than a summons. “I’m thinkin’ there’s a few pounds of me own in the hape, worse luck.”

So me poor Foxey had nothin’ for it but to count out the money on the table fominst them all—nineteen pounds in notes and gold—before he put it in his pocket, and never since money was first med use of was there a man worse plazed to come by it ‘Well, me dears, it would seem that Patsey was none too plazed to part with it, for that matter. Hardly a week had gone by when he met Foxey Regan, and him watchin’ the men diggin’ within’ in the potato field, and then and there Patsey axed his money back off him.

It was on the tip of Foxey’s tongue to tell him he knew nothing about himself or his money, but just in the nick of time he remembered the witnesses, and spoke to him fair enough, though it’s hard set to keep from cursin’ he was at the same time.

“An’ how much was it that I had from you? ’’ he axed him.

“Not wan of me knows rightly,” sez Patsey; “sure, the memory is wake with me, and I’m willin’ to lave it to yourself.”

“Now I remember,” sez Foxey Regan; “’twas fifteen pounds you gave me.”

“That ’ill be it,” sez me poor Patsey; “and it was always yerself that was smart at the figures, Mr. Regan.’’

‘Bedad, at that Foxey was in the divil of a hurry to pay the fifteen pounds, and be done with him so chape.

“You didn’t double it for me,” sea Patsey, as he tuck the money, for want of somethin’ to say.

“Not yet,” sez Foxey Regan, with a wink.

‘“Not yet,”sez Patsey the Omadaun, lettin’ a big foolish laugh out of him, and off he goes as proud as Punch, with his fifteen sovereigns instead of the nineteen that was cornin’ to him.

‘Foxey Regan, on his own side, was mighty plazed to get so well out of him with four pounds and more clear profit in his pocket ‘But it was only a week and a day—and be the same token it was a Friday night, of all the days in the week—that Foxey was havin’ a drink with the same company in the same parlour, an’ them payin’ for it when another quiet kind of knock kem to the door, and who should walk in but me bowld Patsey agin.

‘He was less shy this time than the last, for he walked straight up to where Foxey was sittin.

“I’m cornin’ for me nineteen pounds, if it’s plazin’ to you, Mr. Regan,” he sez out loud fominst thim all. “I’d be axin’ it at wanst off you, sir, if you plaze.”

Bedad, Foxey looked at him as if he had two heads on him, and small blame to him for that same.

“‘What money do you mane, you poor omadaun? ” sez he. “I have no money of yours.”

‘“I mane the nineteen pounds I gev you to care for me,” sez Patsey back again to him, as stiff as you plaze; “and I have witnesses to that same in those three honest men.”

“Bedad, that’s true,” sez Andy Brennan.

“I’d like to see who’d give us the lie over it,” sez Owen Connolly.

‘“’Tis an auricular demonstrashion,” sez the schoolmaster; “we can bear testimony to the transfer of nineteen pounds in species,” sez he.

“I’m not denyin’ that,” sez Foxey Regan; “but sure I ped it back to the omadaun, every penny of it.”

‘“Sorra nineteen pounds he ped me,” sez Patsey; “I’m ready to take me bible-oath of that”

“‘There’s no need, avic; sure we’ll take yer word for it any day in the week,” sez the schoolmaster. ‘Mr. Regan has a weakness agin partin’ with money, as all the world knows.”

“I ped him fifteen pounds of it, anyways,” sez Foxey Regan.

“It’s cornin’ down,” sez Andy Brennan “In three offers more and he’ll have it down very near to nothin’ at all, and then himself and Patsey will be both in wan word.”

“I don’t care for all this choppin’ and changin’,” sez Owen Connolly. “Pay the dacint boy his money, Foxey Regan.”

‘“It’s aither payin’ him here or in the Coorts, Mr. Regan,” sez the schoolmaster, “with his witnesses four to wan agin you, and costs into the bargain. Pay him you must, sooner or later.”

‘Well, me dears, to make a long story short, Foxey had to pay up, and he counted out the sovereigns as if they wor drops of his heart’s blood.

‘“Don’t be too hard on him, naybours,” sez Patsey, as he handled the money; “mebbe the memory is gettin’ wake with him,” sez he. “People do be gettin’ quare notions into their heads sometimes, and the ony way is to keep on never mindin’, and be sed be those that are wiser than themselves.”

‘But when the company left him for the night, Foxey Regan couldn’t be rightly sure if it was a fool or a rogue he had. in Patsey.

“Like enough,” he sez to himself, “the poor omadaun disremembers I ped him, as he dis-remembered the first five-pound note I borrowed off him. It’s always dangerous to have any dalin’s with a fool. But I’m not done yet,” sez he; “and if I get back more than me own,” sez he, “sure it’s small payment for the tormint I’ve been put to.”

Bright and early next momin’ he was up watchin’ poor Patsey’s lonesome cabin, and the moment Patsey went out be the front door, Foxey Regan slipped in unbeknownst be the back door. He went straight to the ould taypot on the dresser. He felt paper crumblin’ under his fingers whin he put in his fist in the taypot, and he med sure he had tiie bank notes. But whin he drew out he found it was only a lafe of a copy-book he had in it, with the words, written in a big round hand ” Good momin’ kindly to you, Mr. Regan! ”

“Begad,” sez Foxey Regan, scratchin’ his head, as he read the paper twice over, “there’s no sinse in the like of this at all at all.” ’

CHAPTER Ill

HOW PATSEY FORGOT THE PISHOGUE

There was always what literary slang calls’ local colour’about the stories of Peter Rattigan. He was as sensitive as the skin of the chameleon to the surroundings of the moment His imagination or his memory reflected passing events, and the adventures of his hero took form and colour from the incidents of daily life in the little town where he lived.

A conjuror had come to town, and we were all wildly excited by the event. He took the biggest room in the Town Hall for the performance. His exploits were watched by a large assembly of all classes and all ages with mingled wonder and delight. The children especially, the old children and the young, including Peter Rattigan and myself, were firmly persuaded that the thing was ‘ not right,’ and that the ‘ould boy ’ himself, or else the ‘good people,’ had a hand in it.

Twas no wonder therefore, when I got my next chance of an exciting ‘shanachus’of Peter the story teller, I found that the conjuror with all his stock of miracles had been transported to the land, vague but delightful, where dwelt Patsey the Omadaun.

‘Him a conjurer!’ said Peter, in lofty contempt for the great man who a few nights before had so surprised and delighted him. ‘Faith, I like that. Will you howld yer tongue, Mickey Costigan, untO you know what you’re talkin’ about? I’m not denyin’ naythur that the poor man knew a few quare pishogues, and could make the cards do his biddin’; but sure he couldn’t howld a candle to him I’m teUin’ you about.’

‘He was good enough for me anyways,’ said Mickey Costigan in a tone of envy and admiration. ‘Didn’t I see him wid me own two eyes dale himself the five, knave, and the ace of hearts in a game of spoil five, and the cards cut and shuffled on him? I wish I could do the like;’t isn’t tailorin’ I’d be at’

‘Do you mind him drawin’ the three different kinds of liquor out of wan bottle? ’ said Darby Fathy; ‘an’ all strong.’

‘Sure it’s about that same I was goin’ to tell you if you’d let me,’ interrupted Peter; ‘but yez cannot be talkin’ and listenin’ at the wan time. Howld yer whist and hear the story.

‘Wanst on a time there kem a conjewror to Patsey’s parish that bet out all that ever wor seen before or since. The divil a thing ye could think of that he couldn’t do. The good people thimselves hadn’t more knowledge of pishogues nor what he had. He could make a pack of cards dance a jig fominst ye, the kings and queens footin’ it heel and toe like Christians, and the jacks playin’ the bagpipes for them. He’d make money come and go as it plazed him, and he’d make a goose out of a man before yer taro eyes.’

‘G’long out of that wid yer lies,’ said Mickey, irreverently; ‘sure no wan could do the like of that’

‘Faix, it wouldn’t take much to do that same for yerself, Mickey,’ said the grinning Peter, who had lain in wait for the interruption; ‘the goose is always brakin’ out in ye, as it is. But is it you that’s tellin’ the story or is it me? ’

Mickey subsided, and Peter continued:

‘Well, as I was tellin’ ye, all the country-side, gentle and simple, was gathered to see the great magician, whin who do ye think he brought upon tire platform to help him with his pishogues but Patsey the Omadaun. Mebbe it was be the innocent look of the poor boy that he picked him out of the lot’ Well, be that as it may, Patsey kep his eyes open and his mouth shut durin’ the performance. His face was as good as a play whin he found pigeons nestin’ in his trousers pocket, and a swarm of bees in his owld caubeen. The magician gev him a half-crown piece whin he was lavin’ the place, and some people wor sayin’ it would turn into a withered lafe in the night time, and Foxey Regan refused to change it in payment for a drink. But it kep its shape and colour all as wan as what you’d get in the price of a pig or the like at a fair or market ‘But it was not the money alone that Patsey got out of the job. Would you belave it that as foolish as he was he managed to pick up some of his pishogues for himself? He could take a row! of ribbon put of his caubeen, and could dale himself any cards he liked out of the pack, an’ if you’d give him a coin he could make it fly away out iv the heel of his fist, ’though he wasn’t such a good hand at bringin’ it back again.

‘Well, me dears, there was a young doctor in those parts be the name of Maguire, and a better man niver stepped in shoe leather. Himself and Patsey wor great friends, an’ good raison Patsey had for that same, for sure the doctor saved his life wanst out of a faver.

‘It might be a week afther the conjewror left the place, an’ it might be more, for I don’t want to tell you a lie about a thing of the kind, that Patsey was goin’ to his work bright an’ airly whin who did he see cornin’ up the road fominst him but the same Doctor Maguire, and him lookin’ very much down in the mouth, which wasn’t the way wid him commonly, for he was a fine, free-spoken, laughy man most times.

“‘Good-momin’, doctor, yer honour,” sez Patsey.

“Good-momin’ kindly, Patsey,” sez the doctor, passin’ on his way.

“There’s somethin’ troublin’ ye, doctor,” sez Patsey, “an’ faith I’m sorry for it meself.”

The doctor stopped and looked at him for a minnit as if he didn’t rightly know what was sed tp him. But he could see the boy was rale sorry for him anyways.

“That’s true for ye, Patsey,” he sez,lettin’ on to laugh; it was a quare kind iv a laugh. “ But sure there’s no use in complainin’,” sez he.

“Might a body be so bowld as to ask what’s on ye, sir?” sez Patsey.

“There’s no saycrit in it,” sez the doctor; “sure all the world knows the election is cornin’ on to-day for the doctor to the workhouse an’ the dispensary, and I’m out av it,” sez he.

“Don’t say that, doctor asthore,” sez Patsey;

“sure the whole country-side is wishin’ ye luck. They’ve put ye down for the place long ago.”

“If wishin’ id do it, Patsey,” sez the doctor, “I’d have as good a chance as another. But sure they’re bringin’ a man from Dublin for the place beyant, an’ me livin’ here, man an’ boy, for twenty-six years.”

“Never fret,” sez Patsey, “they’ll put ye in over him, anyway, or the naybourhood will know the differ iv it”

“‘Faith, that’s cowld comfort,” sez the doctor,“whin the mischief is done. I thought I was sure Of the place till yesterday,” sez he, “whin that owld rogue of a Regan turned agin me,” sez he, “for raisons of his own I’m thinkin’, and that gives tiie Dublin doctor the wan vote he wanted to win.”

‘“But why should owld Foxey Regan turn Turk on you in that way? ” sez Patsey. “Was it money did the job for him? ’’

“I’m not sayin’ yes or no to that question,” sez the doctor.

“An’ if he didn’t come next or near the place at all at all? ” sez Patsey.

‘“That would mane the election to me,” sez the doctor. “The chairman would overrowl me in,” sez he, “on the equality of votes in my favour,” sez he.

‘“Well, good kick gowidye anyways,” sez Patsey; and off wid him on the word. But the whistle was gone out iv him, an’ he was as silent as an owl in daylight An’ if it wasn’t an omadaun that was in it, wan might say it was thinkin’ hard of something he was.

‘Well, be that as it may, he turned off the road ladin’ to his work an’ took instead the road ladin’ to Foxey Regan’s public-house, as many a good man did before him.

‘Foxey was no ways plazed to see him, for Patsey was no great warrant to drink at the best of times, an’ the loss of the money was still stickin’ in Foxey Regan’s mind like a thorn in yer foot that gives ye a quare little prod now and agin whin you lane agin it,

“But this mornin’, airly as it was, Patsey began well be orderin’ two glasses of whiskey—wan for himself an’ wan for Foxey Regan, who was never backward in a matter of that kind at any hour of the day or night “I’d like to see the colour of yer money, me boy,” sez Foxey, rememberin’ the kind of fool he had in it “Faix, that’s aisy seen,” sez Patsey; and wid that he stretched his empty hand over to Foxey Regan’s stubbly sandy beard, for all the world like the conjewrin’ man, and tuck a half-a-crown out iv it ‘“Is that good enough for ye?’’ sez he; “I can have money to me own likin’ now,” sez he.

‘“That’s my half-crown,” sez Foxey, “you tuck it off me. Me beard is part iv meself,” sez he, “an’ I’m entitled in law to what’s found in it”

“Don’t let that be troublin’ ye, Mr. Regan,” sez Patsey; “here it is back to you, an’ welkim.”

‘He tuck the half-crown between his finger and thum’ an’ put it to the funny-bone of Foxey’s elbow, an’, if you’ll belave me, it wint into the man all the same as if he was med of butter, and sorra sight nor light of it was seen afther that ‘“You have it back now, Mr. Regan,” sez Patsey, “an’ much good it may do you,” sez he, “| can get money of me own whin I want it”

‘Wid that he put his hand to his mouth, and, savin’ yer prisince, spit out a half-crown into his fist ‘“Will that do ye?” sez he ‘“An’ welkim,” sez Foxey. “Thim half naturals,” he thought to himself, “do often have quare dalin’s with the good people.”

“‘That’s a handy way ye have of gettin’ money, Patsey avic,” he sez out loud, sthrivin’ to delude the poor omadaun.

“I could do quarer things nor that if I was put to it,” sez Patsey.

‘“Bedad that’s quare enough for me for wan turn,” sez Foxey, “it’s a long way better nor coinin’,” sez he, “and less dangerous. Mebbe you’d show the trick iv it to a poor naybour an’ a well-wisher of yer own.”

‘“I’m not that sure iv meself every time,” sez Patsey. “Sure, I’m only a beginner at the work; but I’ll do me endayvours,” sez he. “If you’ll lind me half-a-crown,” sez he, “I’ll make it disappear from yer sight”

“Why not try wan of yer own? ” sez Foxey.

“That wouldn’t be right at all accordin’ to the charm,” sez Patsey. “It wouldn’t work that ways.”

“Well, here is half-a-crown for ye,” sez Foxey.

‘Patsey put the white money in the heel of his dirty fist, and tucked up the rag of a sleeve the way he saw the conjewror doin’. “Now,” sez he to Foxey, “keep your eye tight on the money while I repate the pishogue.”

‘“Hey presto and high cockalorum,” sez he, sharp and sudden, without movin’ his hand, palm, or finger, and, belave or not as you like, the money was gone all the same as if the ground had swallowed it ‘“Now bring it back,” sez Foxey, his eyes burstm’ out iv his head with the quareness of the thing.

“I’ll do me endayvour,” sez Patsey; and he stretched out his empty fist the same way as before, and cried “Hey presto, high cockalorum! ” a score of times, but sorra sixpence nor a farthin’ of the half-crown could he bring back from wheresom-ever it was gone to.

‘“I’m not perfect in that part of the work yet,” sez he, “it’s the hardest side iv it”

“It’s a bad business for me,” sez Foxey, “an’ me half-crown gone on me.”

“Here’s wan instead iv it,” sez Patsey, takift’ it out of the top iv his own nose. “Sure I wouldn’t see you wantin’ a trifle of the kind.” “‘Thank ye kindly,” sez Foxey, nippin’ it between his teeth to make sure; “bedad it’s as good as if it kem out iv the bank.”

‘The gettin’ back iv his money after he was full sure it was gone on him put him in such humour that he stood a drink iv his own accord, a thing he was seldom known to da ‘One drink borrowed another, an’ they had three or four—I won’t be rightly sure which—in the long run. Patsey was a boy that the drink didn’t prey on, and Foxey had a good head iv his own; but, all the same, he was in rare humour for the likes iv him, and ready to belave any quare story that might be towld him.

“I must be goin’ now,” sez Patsey, “I’ve work to do yit”

“The same here,” sez Foxey, “I’ve an election to attind to, an’ it’s drawin’ down to the hour,” sez he.

”’ Well, the best of friends must part,” sez Patsey; “but we’ll have a dough-a-durrus before lavin’. I’ll trouble ye for a glass of port wine, Mr. Regan, to take the smell iv the whiskey off me.”

“Sorra drop iv the Hke I have in the house,” sez Foxey.

“An’ why not, now?” sez Patsey. “It’s a gentale kind iv drink intirely, Mr. Regan.”

“It’s dear, an’ it’s seldom called for,” sez Foxey.

- ‘“The thing would be aisy managed,” sez Patsey, “if ye wor to be sed be me, an’ that without orderin’ or payin’ for it”

<« Do you mane to tell me, Patsey, that you’ve mastered the trick the conjewrin’ man had wid him the other night to bring three different liquors out iv the mouth of wan bottle? ’’

“‘I wouldn’t go so far as that, Mr. Regan,” sez Patsey. “Thim bottles are very hard and contrary, and like to brake in wan’s hands with the strength iv the pishogue. But if I had a good big barrel I might be able to do something iv that nature,” sez he.

‘“That’s aisy come be,” sez Foxey Regan. “There’s a barrel there in the comer,” Sez he, “that’s full of good whiskey, if that would da”

“Troth that’s the very thing I was wantin’ for me purpose,” sez Patsey.

It would pass the wit iv man to bring three liquors out iv that barrel,” sez Foxey.

“Who’s talkin’ iv man at all in this business? ” sez Patsey.

‘“Is it ‘the good people’ you mane thin?” sez Foxey, in a frightened kind iv whisper.

“I name no names,” sez Patsey, “an’ it’s naythur laughy nor lucky to do the like,” sez he. “But whomsoever they may be,” sez he, “I’ve a pishogue,” sez he, “to make thim do me biddin’ in the thing I have in me mind.”

Are you sure iv it, emock? ”

‘“Sure an’ sartin,” sez Patsey, “if you’ll be sed be me.”

‘“Bedad I’ll do yer biddin’, and why not? Sure it would be mighty convaynient to draw three liquors out iv the same barrel, an’ all good you’re tellin’ me.”

“The best,” sez Patsey, “an’ never want fillin’. What would ye say now to brandy and port wine along wid the whiskey that’s in it already?” sez he.

“’ I’d ax nothin’ better,” sez Foxey.

“Go thin,” sez Patsey, “an’ get a big gimlet and three cocks, and I’ll show ye what I’m able to do. But don’t say a word about it to a sowl or you’ll spile die thing all out Bid thim all keep clear iv the place till you send for them, be it long or short, while the pishogue is workin’.”

Bedad, Foxey did what he was towld as obaydient as a child, for he was wan iv those min, so he was, the Lord betune us an’ harm, that had more belief in the -‘good people” than he had in God Almighty.

Whin the dure was shut agin on the two iv thim, Patsey med ready for his job.

‘He laid die three cocks on the table and began borin’ a hole in the face iv the cask about two fut from the ground.

“Kneel down here fominst the barrel,” sez he to Foxey, whin he had the hole very near bored.

“What for, thin? ” sez Foxey.

“I want ye to put yer thumb on the hole, sez Patsey, “until I have the others bored, for that’s the way I have in the workin’ iv the pishogue.”

‘Well, Foxey did what he was bid as make as a three-year-ould gossoon, an’ whin Patsey drew out the gimlet he clapped his thumb to it before a drop could come “That’s for brandy,” sez Patsey.

“Faix, I thought I could smell the smell iv it,” sez Foxey.

‘“Now we’ll mek wan for the port wine,” sez Patsey. “It’s well to keep thim asunder,” sez he, “for fear of their mixin’.”

Wid that he med another hole about two fat off from the first, and got Foxey to put his other thumb upon that “Now for the whiskey,” sez Patsey. “I’ll put that in the middle,” sez he, “because there’s most call for it”

‘It must be that he forgot that Foxey had only two thumbs on him, for he was in a pucker afther he had the hole bored how to stop it ‘“Clap yer tongue to it for a minnit, Mr. Regan,” sez he, “while I run for the cocks. The taste iv the whiskey won’t hurt ye.”

‘Foxey did as he was bid in a hurry widout thinkin’, and Patsey med as if to run for the three cocks.

‘But whin he had the three iv thim in his hands didn’t he let a cry out iv him—“Tare an’ ages! but I’ve forgot the pishogue. It’s above in the cabin it is. Howld yer howlt, Mr. Regan, till I come back wid it”

‘Wid that he med off with himself as if the divil was at his heels, carryin’ the three cocks away with him in his hurry, an’ lavin’ me poor Foxey an his knees fominst the barrel as if he wor sayin’ his momin’ prayers to it.

‘Faix, curses were more in his line than prayers at the time, I’m thinkin’; but they wor smothered up inside iv him, for the sorra word he could get out for fear of chokin’ himself wid the raw whiskey.

‘There he stuck an’ there he stayed, for he knew that if he moved thumb or tongue the whiskey would be out in a flood over the place.

Meanwhile the election was goin’ widout him.

‘The doctor down from Dublin was fit to be tied whin he counted his min and found one gone out iv it But the chairman, who was a friend of Dr. Maguire’s, tuk no heed of his contrariness.

‘The minnit the clock struck twelve the chairman set to his work.

“Time’s up, gentlemin,” he sed, as brisk as a bee on a honeysuckle.

’” There’s a voter absint,” sez the doctor from Dublin.

“‘Mebbe he’d be here next time,” sez the chairman.

“I’m onaisy about him,” sez the doctor.

“I’m not in the laste,” sez the chairman.

“I could sind for him,” sez the doctor.

“Don’t disturb him on my account,” sez the chairman.

<« You’ll give him time? “sez the doctor.

‘“He may take his own time,” sez the chairman; “as much as he plazes. Sure, I don’t want to hurry him.”

‘Thin, before ye could cry crack, he had the votes tuck, and Dr. Maguire overrowled into the place.

‘Whin Dr. Maguire was returnin’ thanks for the complimint he caught a sight iv Patsey’s innocent face an the edge iv the crowd, and there was a thrimble an the boy’s eyelid at the momint, and faix, I think the omadaun got the full share iv the thanks that was goin’.

‘But nobody could guess what had come to Foxey Regan at all at all The election was no sooner over than the doctor from Dublin was off like a redshank to find him, wid the crowd hot-fut afther him.

“Where’s yet master? ” he cried to the man behind the counter, burstin’ into the shop.

‘” He’s within in the bar parlour, yer honner,” sez the man, “and he lift orders that none was to disturb him widout he towld thim to do it”

“Faix, I’ll soon disturb him,” sez the doctor, an’ he turned the handle and burst into the room, wid the schoolmaster and Andy Brennan and Owen Connolly the first min up behind him.

‘Bedad they all stopped short on the mortial minnit at the sight fominst thim.

‘There was Foxey Regan kneelin’ in front iv the big whiskey barrel, wid his hands round it, and him kissin’ it “It’s drunk he is,” sez Andy Brennan.

“Or mad,” sez Owen Connolly.

‘“Are you transmogrified out iv yer sivin sinces man?” sez the schoolmaster to Foxey. “Arise from that ondaycint an’ unchristian attitude at wanst,” sez he.

‘But sorra word or a stir anywan iv thim could knock out iv Foxey.

‘The doctor med a rush at him, but Foxey let out a kick with his right fut which tuck him in the pit iv the stomach and sent him back agin the wall.

‘“Get up out iv that, ye bosthoon,” sez the schoolmaster in plain English. But Foxey only let drive another kick wid the left fut that nearly kicked the shoe off himself.

‘Wid that Owen Connolly, who had always a quare temper iv his own, stooped down and tuck him be the slack iv the breeches and plucked him from the barrel as you’d pluck a snail from the wall.

‘The whiskey burst out afther him in three spouts, an’ very near choked and drowned the man, and filled the room a foot deep.

“It’s a trate,” sez somewan in the crowd, “a trate, boys, from Foxey Regan in honour of Dr. Maguire’s election. Yer sowls to glory, did ye iver hear betther nor that?”

‘Bedad there was a rush and a scrimmage for mugs and glasses an’ tin cans, and it’s little iv the whiskey wint to waste I can promise ye.

‘In the midst iv it all in comes Patsey the Omadaun runnin’, wid the three cocks in his hands.

‘.“I have the pishogue ready, Mr. Regan,” he shouted. Thin, as he laid eyes an Foxey Regan lyin’ an th’ flure half drowned in whiskey, and bubblin’ curses out iv him, “Oh! murther in Irish, why didn’t ye howld yer howlt as I towld ye an’ I’d have done the trick for ye? ”

“‘Never fret, Patsey, emock,” sez the schoolmaster in a sort of whisper, “troth you did the trick right enough for him, I’m thinkin’.”

‘Foxey was so soaked in whiskey that he cud drink nothin’ but cowld wather for a month, which was a hard thing on any man.

“Sure it was a judgmint on me,” he sez to the schoolmaster afterwards. “What right had I to make or meddle with a fool of the kind? But the pishogue was all right, I’m thinkin’, only it come late.”

CHAPTER IV

HOW PATSEY PLAYED WITH DYNAMITE

It was a stirring time in the little town of Kill-clougher. Two events of great local importance had wakened it up from its habitual sleepiness. The first was the capture of a celebrated poteen distiller, who had long eluded the police, but whose still had been at last discovered in the dungeon of an old castle in the neighbourhood of the town. There was much sympathy amongst the inhabitants’of the town with this enterprising and popular tradesman, whose whiskey was good and cheap, and not the less relished by the gentle and simple because it ‘never paid sixpence to the Queen.’

But by degrees the secret oozed out that the poteen maker had informed on himself under another name. The distillery was captured, not the distiller, and for his still and worm he got from the Government a reward sufficient to buy a new equipment to set him up in business elsewhere, and he moreover secured a magnificent advertisement from the sympathetic and approving natives.

But even the excitement of the capture of the poteen still soon yielded to the larger excitement of the new waterworks. Heretofore Killdougher supplied itself by pots and cans, and barrels slung on wheels, with water from a well about a mile outside the town. The prospect of water brought in pipes into the very houses themselves was too astounding to be realised by the local imagination. Incredulity mingled with impatience.

‘Seein’ is believin’,’ said Peter Rattigan; ‘we’ll have the water runnin’ upstairs in the big houses about the time the pigs begin to fly, I’m thinkin’.’

‘I dunno what call they had to be wastin’ time and money on foolery of the kind,’ grumbled Darby Fathy; ‘sure they had enough an’ lavin’s iv water cornin’ into thim from the well.’

Injustice to Darby, it must be said that he never wasted water on himself, especially when there was any other liquor to be had.

But Mickey Costigan warmly approved of the project, and I shared his approval. Let it be confessed that it was the means, not the end, that wakened our joint enthusiasm. The workmen were engaged in excavating with dynamite a reservoir in a rocky hill about a mile outside the town. Ever and again the dull thud of a great explosion would shock the earth and air like an earthquake.

To us boys there was a fearful delight in the performance We were, it must be confessed, a constant source of fright and worry to the superintendent The same instinct that draws the moth to the candle drew us to the place when an explosion was imminent It was a miracle we were not blown into little bits. We pilfered, moreover, odds and aids of dynamite—enough to make mincemeat of our worthless little carcasses—and carried them about with twine and nails and cobbler’s wax, and peg-tops and .marbles, in our trousers pockets. We organised explosions of our own which blew up the market cross, and kept the town in a condition of feverish and fascinating excitement No wonder that these tremendous events coloured the stories of Peter Rattigan.

‘Patsey the Omadaun,’ he began abruptly, “was ever an’ always up at the blastin’ work, all the same,’ he added, with a severe look at Mickey Costigan,‘as other omadauns I’ve heard tell of that would be better employed attindin’ to their work.’

‘What was it, Peter, they wor blastin’ in those parts—was it waterworks they wor afther? ’ asked Mickey, innocently.

But Peter was not to be betrayed into details.

“How can I tell the like of that? ’ he said. ‘I wasn’t there at the time. Mebbe it was a railway they wor makin’ and mebbe it wasn’t.” Be that as it may, Patsey was always fiddlin’ about with the dynamite and lettin’ off shots with it agin the rocks.

‘Faix, it was a lie for me to say “ever and always,” for he had other work on hand at the time. I towld ye before he was a clever boy at anything that he’d turn his hand to, and the humour tuck him to make poteen the way he saw it done when he was only a bit iv a gossoon. Now most people whin they want to make poteen find a saycrit place for thimselves in a bog or a mountain or a cave or an owld ainchint ruin, and generally ‘tis the smoke out iv the fire that finds thim out for the polis. But nothing wold plaze me bowld Patsey but to make it within his own cabin and bum the smoke up his own chimney.

‘Well, me dears, the omadaun’s luck stud to him still, for the polis never heard tell iv so foolish-some a thing as a man makin’ poteen within on his own kitchin fire. So whin it got to be plinty in the place they went stravagin’ backwards and forwards, night and morn, through the hills and the bogs and the owld ainchint ruins, but sorra wan iv thim ever thought of lookin’ at what was fominst thim, all as wan as you’d see a man sairch high and low for his specs which wor on his own head all the time within an inch of the two eyes that wor sarchin’ for thim.

There was a chief of polis in them parts that tuck great pride out iv himself. He thought there was no sich man goin’, but faix there wom’t many others that thought the same thing about him. He wasn’t more nor five fut high, wid a moustache as big as himself very near. From his size and his strut the naybours put the name iv the “bantam cock ” on him, and sorra other name he was known be far or near.

‘Well, me dears, Alexander Freeney—for that was me gintleman’s rale name—was dead set on findin’ out who was makin’ the poteen under his very nose as it wor. So he marched an’ he counter marched through the country-side and poked his nose into every rabbit-hole that was in it; but sorra wan bit he was nearer at the ind nor he was at the beginnin’ to the thing he was after.

‘It wasn’t for want iv information he failed in his work, for every wan had a new story for him every day, till at last the childer tuck the game up for themselves, and used to be shoutin’ after him in the street a rhyme they had on him:—

Catch, catch, can My little man Drink your nuff and take your fill When you find the whiskey still.

The little man was that mad over the business that wan time he drew his sword on the craturs as they wor shoutin’ after him, and he would have murdered some iv thim all out if an owld woman hadn’t dashed it out iv his hand with a rollin’-pin.

His way from his own house to the town led be Patsey’s cabin, an’ he passed it night an’ mom-in’, an’ only a mud wall between himself and what he was lookin’ for.

‘It happened wan day that he wanted a light for his seegar—for he didn’t think an honest dhudeen good enough for the likes of him—and where did he go luck for it but into the cabin where Patsey was busy at his work in the face iv a big black pot on a roaring turf fire.

Well me gintleman walked straight over to the fire and lifted a coal wid the bit iv a tongs that was lyin’ be the hearth, and lit his seegarj and stood there smokin’ and takin’ his aize as if the place belonged to him.

‘“You’re hot there, yer honour,” sez Patsey, thinkin’ of the game of hide and seek, that the childer do be playin’, and humourin’ the joke.

“Faix, it’s bumin’ you are ”—for the tail ind iv his uniform began to smoke wid the hate.

‘The chief tuck a big jump back from the fire.

“You are not so hot now,” sez Patsey, all as wan as if it wgr the game he wor playin’ still “Don’t I know that, ye fool,” sez the chief, “widout you’re tellin’ me! ”

“Sure, I thought it was no harm to mention it,” sez Patsey; “I thought it might be iv use to you in what you wor lookin’ for,” sez he.

‘Thin Freeney remembered that it was an oma-daun he had in Patsey. “Those fools,” he thought to himself, “oftentimes hear more than they tell. I’ll draw him out,” he thought; but who was drawn out, and who was tuck in, it’s not for me to say.

‘“That’sa big pot, Patsey,” sez the chief, be way of beginnin’ the talk.

‘“Faix, an’ it id want to be big,” sez Patsey, “an’ the work I have for it”

“What are you cookin’ in it at prisint? ” sez the chief.

“Poteen, bedad,” sez Patsey, lettin’ a big, foolish laugh out iv himself.

“ The chief laughed too to humour the joke, well plazed that Patsey drew down of his own accord the thing he wanted to talk about “Jokes aside, Patsey,” he sez out iv a thought, “there does be a dale iv the same med in these parts.”

“I’m sure and sartin iv that,” sez Patsey.

“Not a hundred mile from here,” sez the chief.

“An’ nearer agin,” sez Patsey.

‘“I wish I cud lay me two hands on the vagabond that does be makin’ it,” sez the chief.

“‘An’ what would ye do on him if ye caught him itself?” sez Patsey.

“I’d imprison him, and fine him and confisgate him all out,” sez the chief.

“Mebbe, now,” sez Patsey, “the poor boy that does it has no harm in it”

“‘Oh, the thief and vagabone of the world,” sez the chief; “don’t he know it’s agin the law iv the land? ”

“An’ is it now? ” sez Patsey, “and faix, that’s a bad job for him, the poor boy, if he was caught, I’m thinkin’.”

“There’d be a reward for thim that’d help to catch him,” sez the chief, ladin’ up to what he wanted.

‘“Bedad, I think I cud help in that ways meself if I wor put to it,” sez Patsey.

‘“Now, do ye tell me so?” sez the chief. “Do you suspect who’s makin’ it? ” sez he.

“‘Faix, it’s more nor suspicion wid me,” sez Patsey. “I know the look iv the boy well,” sez he, “that does be makin’ it”

“What is his name? ” sez the chief, in a great hurry all out “He nivir yit towld me his name,” sez Patsey ‘” What is he like? ” sez the chief “Describe him to me,” sez he, “an’ I’ll soon find him.”

<« Now, I’d be hard set to do that same,” sez Patsey, “for I nivir yit got a straight look at him, though we wor often alone altogether,” sez he. “He’s a boy very like me own self, I’m thinkin’.”

‘Afther that the chief got a notion that it was all foolishness. But he didn’t give in yit ‘“Did ye ever see him at work, Patsey?” he asked.

“Troth, an’ I did so,” sez Patsey.

“An’ cud ye bring me to the place and let me ketch him in the act? ” sez the chief.

“Faix, an’ I cud, to be sure,” sez Patsey; “there’s no trouble at all in the like iv that”

“But whin? ”

On the mortial minute.”

“That won’t do for me,” sez the chief “I must have me min armed and ready,” sez he. “I’ve no doubt it is a murderin’ villain. Cudn’t ye say to-night? ”

‘“That would be no manner iv use,” sez Patsey. “Sure, he nivir works be the night time. Besides, he’ll have finished the job he has in hand in an hour’s time if he is left at it, and he won’t begin agin mebbe for a week.”

“‘If I come back agin in a week’s time can you help me to catch him at work?” sez the chief.

“Faix, I can so if I want to. But mebbe I’d get into trouble meself if he was caught”

“There’s not the laste taste of fear of that, me man. On the contrary, you’ll be handsomely rewarded,” sez he.

“‘Didn’t I hear you talkin’ a minute ago about finin’ and jailin’ and confisgation and the like?”

“Ob, that’s for the blaguard poteen maker.”

“Mebbe I’d get me share iv it at the same time?”

“There’s no danger of that, I’m tellin’ ye. The ruffian will never know you informed on him. I’U kape the saycrit close for you. He’ll never do ye hurt or harm.”

“Troth, I’ll belave ye in that any way,” sez Patsey. “Well, I’ll think over it, yer honour,” sez he, “but I don’t say I’ll do it, for fear I’d get me-self into some sort iv trouble.”

“An’ now I’ll be biddin’ yer honour the time of day,” he sez, “for I’ve me work to do, an’ if ye do be interruptin’ me I’ll nivir be through wid it” ‘So the “bantam cock” wint down the hillside steppin’ short an’ high, and well plazed and proud out iv himself that he had over-perswaded Patsey the Omadaun to turn “stag” on the poteen maker.

‘But whin he kem again at the ind iv the week and axed him to lade him to where the still was, Patsey swore he cudn’t lade him wan fut nearer than where he was at the prisint moment, and laughed so loud at the joke iv it that the chief kem back to his first mind that it was a fool he had in it, and rose out iv him for that while.

‘ Meanwhile me bowld Patsey was makin’ money hand over fist out iv the poteen, and Foxey Regan didn’t like the way things wor goin’ at all at all.

‘ His custom was droppin’ off now that people cud get the liquor good and chape at their own door, and there was nivir a better drop med in any place, for the boy, as I towld ye, was diver in whatever he put his hand to.

‘Afther another while Foxey Regan began to have a notion that Patsey was at the bottom iv the business. Even thin he had no thought that the boy was sich an omadaun as to bring in a still into his own cabin an’ mek the “hard stuff” openly in the face iv the world an’ the polis. He bethought himself iv the trick iv the conjewror man whom he saw wid his own eyes mek three liquors come out iv wan empty bottle full iv water, an’ he notioned that Patsey had some pishogue from the good people to make poteen the same ways.

‘ He was ever an’ always lurkin’ and loiterin’ round the cabin, spyin’ what he could find out But what bet him intirely was the aisy way Patsey wint through his business, givin’ no heed to him nor his doin’s.

‘ Oftentimes he got the strong smell iv poteen about the place, an’ he med sure it come from the big empty barrel that stood at the gable ind to howld the rain, but whin he tasted it sorra ha’porth was in it only water, and that dirty into the bargain.

‘Bedad, the luck can often do what skamin’ can’t Wan day as Foxey Regan was mouchin’ around the place lookin’ for the barrel or the jar that Patsey had stuck the pishogue on, didn’t he pull out from an owld “collough ” near the fireplace an illigant still an’ worm.

‘Ye don’t know what a “collough ” is, Master Watty?’ Peter interrupted to explain. ‘Musha, an’ more shame to thim that has the tachin’ iv ye. Well, thin, a “collough” is just a bulge out in the wall, as if wan wor goin’ to push a hole in it an’ stopped wid his work half-done.

Bedad, an’ Foxey Regan was proud iv himself intirely at the find he med, and patted himself on the back as the cutest man in the country-side, though it was chance helped him that time, not cunnin’.

Who’d iver think iv that,” sez he, “that the biggest omadaun that iver stepped in shoe leather wud go to make poteen regular within his own cabin, an’ the chief Freeney in an’ out wid him ivery day iv the week an’ niver suspectin’ anything? But sure some people cannot see the things that are forninst their two eyes.”

‘ He put the still an’ worm back as he found thim and sed nothing good or bad to any wan about it only to Freeney, the chief of the polis. That night he was down hot-fut to the chiefs house, and found him within smokin’ a big seegar and drinkin’ claret wine. I only tasted that same wanst meself, and I’d rather have buttermilk, if you’d belave me, any day iv the week.

“Well, me good man,” sez Freeney, “and what brings you here at this unsaisonable hour iv the night?”

‘“It was about a sazin’ I kem,” sez Foxey, wonderin’ how he guessed what was on his mind; “ but sure it can stand over till the momin’,” sez he; “there’s no hurry on me,” sez he.

“I dunno what you are talkin’ about, me good man,” sez the chief, “wid yerself and yer sazin’”; and wid that Foxey saw he’d been too hasty with his word, an’ he wint back on himself a little bit.

“I hear tell, yer honour,” sez he, “that there’s a reward goin’ about the poteen-makin’.”

‘“That’s so,” sez the other; “twinty pounds, no less.”

‘Faix, Foxey’s two eyes wor near startin’ out iv his head with the talk iv such a big lob iv money as that “I come to give information that may lade to its discovery,” sez he.

‘“Ye may save yer breath to cool yer porridge,” sez the chief; “there’s a man before ye in the business.”

‘Wid that poor Foxey’s heart wint down into his boots at the thought iv the money slippin’ through his fingers. “An’ what’s his name? ” sez he, in a wake kind iv whisper.

“I don’t mind tellin’ ye,” sez the chief, “that his name is Patrick O’Rourke.”

“Is it Patsey the Omadaun ye mane be that? ” stammered poor Foxey, for he med full sure thin that the chief held been beforehand wid him.

“The same,” sez the chief.

“Thin I may as well be goin’,” sez Foxey, “since ye caught the man for yerself,” sez he.

“I haven’t exactly captured him yet,” sez the chief; “but O’Rourke has promised to give me information about him. He knows the man well,” sez he.

‘Bedad, wid that Foxey began to roar wid the laughin’, fit to split his sides, an’ the “ bantam cock ” got red in the gills at the sight iv him.

“This is most ondaycint behaviour,” sez he.

“‘I beg yer honour’s pardon,” sez Foxey, hardly able to spake wid the dint iv the laughin’.

“Troth, that bangs Banagher,” sez he, “Banagher bangs the divil. So Patsey the Omadaun knows the man, inagh! Faith, that’s like enough, too, seein’ he’s the man himself.” And wid that he up an’ towld the whole story out iv a face how he found the still and the worm in the collough that momin’.

“I suspected the fellow from the first,” sez the chief. “I played wid him,” sez he, “asa cat would play wid a mouse. But ye needn’t mention the details to outsiders, me good mein,” sez he.

“An’ the reward you must have it,” sez the chief, “if you’ll be sed be me in the business, and keep a quiet tongue in yer head.”

‘ So the two boyos med their plan that they wud call the next day, in the evenin’ time, at Patsey’s cabin, “for that’s the time he does be mostly in,” sez the chief, “an’ we must try to take the bird on the nest We will bring a detachment iv polis wid us,” sez he, “and you’ll see for yer-self how I’ll dale wid the fellow,” sez he.

‘ Poor Patsey was fominst the fire, thinkin’ no harm, whin widout “be yer lave,” or “wid yer lave,” the chief strutted in at the door, the livin’ picture iv the bantam cock he was called afther, wid Foxey Regan snakin’ afther him like a hen that’d be moultin’.

‘ The chief was on for a joke wid Patsey before he tuck him an’ his still. So he began wid his humbuggin’ the poor innocent boy.

“Halloa, O’Rourke! ” sez he; “glad to find ye at home,” sez he; an’ at the tone iv his voice Patsey looked up suddin’ and cocked his ears like a rabbit’s at the sound iv a dog’s bark.

“Thank yer honour kindly,” was all he sez, as make and mild as new milk.

“I won’t ax ye what’s in the big pot,” sez the chief, “bekase I happen to know,” sez he; “ nor what’s in the collough aither,” sez he, with a humbuggin’ kind iv a smile.

‘Thin wid the wind iv the word Patsey knew the whole murder was out But sorra wan turn it tuck out iv him. Only he caught up a long-shaped parcel that was lyin’ on the table fominst him like a small bit iv a lump iv stick wrapped in brown paper, an’ began tossin’ it into the air and catchin’ it first in wan hand and thin in the other and whistlin’ a quick tune to humour the dancin’ ivit ‘“What’s that—what’s that?” sez the chief, surprised at the quareness iv the omadaun, and thinkin’ he had him nabbed safe in any case.

“Faix, that’s a quare thing, too,” sez Patsey, betune two whistles.

“What’s a quare thing? ” sez the chief, makin’ full sure it was a fool he had in it ‘“It’s only a small taste iv dynamite,” sez Patsey, tossin’ it very near to the rafthers, “wid per-cussin’ caps at both inds iv it,” sez he, “that I got beyant at the quarries. Sorra a thing it’s like but a lump iv putty,” he sez; “and for as small as it is, an’ as mane as it looks, if it fell out iv me hands on the flure, it has the power in itself,” sez he, “to scatter the house an’ all that’s in it like a box iv matches.”

‘Wid that he tossed it up agin as high as before, and caught it wid a smack in his fist. Bedad, whin he heard the word the chief let a roar out iv him an’ the colour wint from his face, barrin’ the moustache.

“Put it down, ye madman,” he shouted, edgin’ for the dure. “Put it down at wanst”

“Niver fear, yer honour,” sez Patsey. “Sure I wouldn’t drop it in a wake of Sundays,” and he sint it spinnin’ to the rafthers agin and let on to fumble in his catch as it kem down.

‘ Bedad, the chief didn’t wait to see the ind iv the business, for he med wan bolt through the dure, as a rabbit from a burrow wid a ferret at his heels, an’ for as quick as he was Foxey was before him.

“Run,” the chief shouted to his min outside, “run for yer lives!” And ye niver saw sich runnin’ and chasin’ as there was down the hillside at the word and the sight iv him. Sorra wan iv thim cried halt till they wor safe in the town.

‘Patsey watched thim over the half-dure till they wor out iv sight Thin he wint back to the table with his lump iv dynamite in his hand and opened the brown paper and took out two good ounces iv plug tobakey. He cut a good knob iv it with his jack-knife and chopped it into shavin’s and tazed it wid his fingers and crammed his dhudeen wid it, and lit it wid a coal out iv the fire.

“I think I aimed that smoke, anyways,” he sez, laughin’ to himself.Whin the chief and Foxey and the polis crept back to nab him at night-time they found the poor boy snorin’ paisably in his bed, wid the tobakey in the brown paper beside him. But there was nayther tale nor tidin’s iv poteen or still about the place from that out’

CHAPTER V

HOW PATSEY EMPLOYED THE IRON MAN

‘Arrah, let mealone now, can’t you, Master Watty. Sure, it’s tired talkin’ I am, an’ have me work to look afther.’

But I was not discouraged by the protest, for I knew by the pleased twinkle in Peter’s eyes that the story was coming.

‘What happened next to Patsey the Omadaun, is it? ’ he went on grumblingly. ‘Faix, many a quare thing happened to him if I had time to tell thim. Can’t I tell wan ivthim at a time? Whoasked ye to put in yer gab, Mickey Costigan? I cud, an’ tell two iv thim at a time if I’d a mind to do it Ye dunno how that cud be wid only the wan mouth on me, and you stitchin’ wid a double thread wid the wan needle and the wan eye to it. Faix, it’s hard to tache ye sinse or dacincy. Give no heed to him, Master Watty, and don’t take afther him, whatever ye do. Sure, the sooner I begin the story the sooner ‘twill be over, wid the Uessfai’ iv God.

‘Well, thin, I was tellia’ ye the last time how Patsey saved himself be his foolishness, lettin’ on to mistake tobakey for dynamite. Afther that he rose out of potheen makin’ altogether. Wid wan thing an’another he had saved a tidy bit iv money—near hand to a hundred pound, I’m towld—and he was on the look-out to better himself. There was a naybour of his, a man ivthe nameiv Maloney, that tuck the notion to go to America, and he comfortable at home wid a nice place iv his own an’ a low rent on it, and no wan to say aye, yis, or no to him in anything he’d be afther. But he was always a rovin’, restless blade iv a boy who cudn’t contint himself quietly anywhere, an’ his nice place was a disgrace to the countfy-side, and the way he kep’ it up.

‘Well, whin Patsey found he was on for Ameriea didn’t he buy the place off iv him out iv hand wid the money he had put by, and set to work, labourin’ from momin’ till night, and begin -nin’ agin fresh the next momin’ to put things to rights on it ‘In three months ye wudn’t know it for the same place that it was before.” The boy had put a new thatch on the cottage, that shone like yellow gold in the sunlight, and the rose trees that wor staggerin’ and scramblin’ over the walls didn’t he train thim and help thim to cover the place with posies that looked in wid their purty red faces at the windows, and sint their sweet breath before thim all through the place?

‘There was a garden at the back wid a weeney little river runnin’ through the middle iv it, talkin’ to itself all the time like a child at its play, and fruit trees and flowers keepin’ aich other company. Nowhere in the country-side was there a place the birdies liked so well as that same garden. They wor there eyer an’ always, in the spring and the summer time, flyin’ and flutterin’, half mad wid the joy iv the sunshine, and singin’as if they’d never lave off, wid a bit iv an apple or a cherry or the like ready for breakfast or supper.

‘Faix, Patsey wasn’t the boy to begrudge thim their bit or sup they tuck. “Sure the music ped for it,” he used to be sayin’, “and chape at that” But, above all an’ beyant all, he was proud iv his row iv beehives in the comer, wid a low lazy hum out iv thim that seemed to be part iv the sunshine. I declare to me word that he was that good to the bees with trakle an’ sugar an’ the like, that the little cratereens knew him and would follow him about the garden like Christians.

‘Patsey’s new place was on the straight road to Rory Maguire’s, an’ Rory Maguire himself, cornin’ and goin’ to market, would see the boy at work, an’ bid him the time iv day in passin’.

‘At buyin’ or sellin’ or plantin’ or growin’ there wasn’t a cuter cratur goin’ than the same Patsey. It got about on him that he was lucky in those things an’ oftentimes Rory himself would stop to have a word wid him about the breedin’ and rarin’ of a baste or the plantin’ iv a crop or the like.

‘ It was a long time he was there before he saw sight or light iv Biddy. Maguire. But wan day, as he was standin’ in front iv the house, she wint by slowly in a print gown, lookin’ as bright an’ fresh as the May momin’.

‘It chanced that she looked in as he looked out, an’ she stopped hesitatin’ like, an’ wid that he up an’ he jumps the wall in front iv the house, and out on the road wid him fominst her, and him in his shirt sleeves.

“The top iv the momin’ to ye, Miss Maguire,” he sez, “an’ it’s yerself that’s out bright an’ early.”

“The same to ye, Patsey,” sez she, smilin’ on him, “and it’s a purty place ye have there, and the flowers are lovely wid ye.”

‘ Wid that he plucked a red rose off a bush and offered it to her as innocent as you’d give a goody to a child.

‘But the girl coloured redder nor the rose as she tuck it from him, and stuck it in the buzzum iv her dress.

“Thank ye kindly,” she sez, “you cud give me nothin’ I’d like better; an’ now I must be goin.

‘He didn’t say yis, aye, or no to that, an’ mebbe she thought he wouldn’t be in such a hurry to part with her; but be that as it may, she walked off mighty smart widout wanst lookin’ behind.

‘ She kem by oftentimes afther that about the same hour, and Patsey always had a kind word or a flower for her, but she never sted for more than a minnit or so, and there was no talk iv courtin’ between thim at all at all ‘Now ye mustn’t run away wid the story that it was sweethartin’ they wor that time, for Patsey had no notion at all iv the like. He thought her lovely to look at all the same as the purty posies, and her voice was soft on his ears as the singin’ iv the birds. But beyant that sorra thrawneen he cared for her or any other girl at the time, only he was tender-hearted and civil spoken to the whole iv thim.

‘Wan week she didn’t come, and thin the next, and thin a lonesomeness kem on the boy, an’ he missed her passin’ through and fro as you’d miss a gleam of sunshine in cloudy weather. But that was only an odd time in the momin’, for it med no hindrance in his aitin’ nor drinkin’ nor workin’ nor steepin’ whether she come or stayed.

‘It happened wan day in the autumn he was mowin’ a small lock iv airly clover. Bedad he looked grand in his shirt sleeves wid his strong arms bared to the elbows, slashin’ all before him wid the long sweep iv his sythe, and the bright steel flashed in the sun as it flew, and the purty flowers lay piled behind like small red waves on a green sea.

‘He stopped for a momint and stretched and straightened himself, and wiped the sweat wid wan hand from his forehead; sorra finer bey you’d see anywhere, wid the broad shoulders and strong round arms iv him an’ a fine colour in his face, an’ the blue eyes bluer for the red of his cheeks.

‘ A quare low sound kem to his ears on the still hot air from the other side of the whitethorn hedge that shut Rory Maguire’s field from his own, an’ he stopped to listen to it.

“Bedad it’s a leprechaun,” he sez to himself, an’ his heart jumped at the thought iv it For be all accounts there was a dale of leprechauns in thim parts at the time.

‘He stole round to where there was a gap in the thick hedge, and begor Patsey could walk as light as a cat very near iv he was put to it The little birdies on the bushes never heard him cornin’. There was a small clump of hazel trees just beyant the openin’ in the hedge, wid the white nuts in thick clusthers on ivery branch, and through the crevices in the branches he could get a glimpse iv something red an’ white in the heart iv the clump. Then he med sure all out that he had the leprechaun cotched.

‘The quare sound seemed quarer than iver as he drew near to it, walkin’ lighter than his own shadow that crept afther him on the thick grass. It was that sorrowful that he began to think, after all, that it was a banshee he had in it, not a leprechaun. But thin he always heard tell that a banshee does be shoutin’ and bawlin’. But this sound was as low as the song iv a little rivereen hidin’ under the green leaves from the sun, and makin’ sad music for itself as it creeps slowly in an’ out through the woods, as if loath to lave it.

‘Patsey med niver a sound till he got round to the openin’ that led to the heart of the clump iv hazel trees, and peeped in. His eyes an’ his mouth opened wide at the sight he saw there, an’ he was hard set to keep himself from shoutin’ wid the surprise iv it.Sorra leprechaun was there at all at all. But poor Biddy Maguire, the cratur, half sittin’ an’ halt lyin’ on a mossy bank, that was in it, an’ she cryin’ her purty eyes out ‘A purtier sight you wouldn’t see in a summer day’s walk than that same colleen. Through the cracks in the green roof iv the hazel clump the sun spilt drops iv gold on her, now on her cheek, now on her hair that gave the gold back again, and the light and shadows played and danced round her like the “good people ” at their divilment ’The sight of her at that moment would have softened the heart iv a wheelbarrow. Poor Patsey was always a tinder natured boy, and was lost for some way to comfort her.

He stamped his fut on a dry twig that lay in his path, an’ at the crack iv it she looked and saw him cornin’. Wid a cry like a birdie caught in a trap she jumped to her feet She was purtier than iver at that minnit Her cheeks were redder than the roses in June, and her eyes bluer than the patches iv summer sky in the high green roof iv the trees. Her hair went down in thick clusters to her waist, and a smile looked out through the tears in her eyes and trembled on her lips.

“Oh, Mr. O’Rourke, you frightened me,” she sed; but she stretched her soft, warm hand to him as she spoke the word, an’ he tuck it an’ kept it ‘Twas a grate chance intirely for any wan who had the laste taste iv gumption. But sure Patsey was no more nor an omadaun at that time, and had no “grah ” at all for colleens.

‘It’s hard to say what girls like or don’t like, and they’re slow to tell the truth about it But I’m thinkin’ myself, be it right or wrong, that if he tuck her in his arms and kissed her on the mortial minnit she’d be none too ill-plazed whatsomever she might have let on to him.

‘But in truth she was no more to him at the time, wid all her purtiness, than a three-year-old child, an’ it was pity, not love, that was in his heart for her.

‘ So, thinkin’ it no harm at all, he sat down on the green bank beside her and put his arm round her waist, and wiped her purty eyes wid the tail iv her own print gown.

“What’s yer trouble, alannah? ” he sez, all as wan as iv it wor a child he was speakin’ to. “ Mebbe now an’ I could help ye out iv it”

“No wan can help me,” sez she, lookin’ at him out from under her eyes, “only God, iv it wor plazin’ to Him, which it isn’t,” sez she.

“‘Ye might tell me what it is anyways,” sez he.

“Where’s the good? ” sez she.

“Where’s the harm? ” sez he.

“I’m ashamed,” sez she.

“Then ye needn’t be,” sez he.

‘“Well, thin,” sez she, “if ye want so much to know, it’s me daddy is strivin’ to marry me to a man that I hate worse nor poison,” sez she.

‘At the talk about marryin’ she got redder nor iver, and he cud feel her heart batin’ fast under his arm iv he had any feelin’ at all in him. But sorra stir it tuck out iv the omadaun.

“What’s his name,” sez he, “If I might mek so bowld as to ax it? ”

“Regan is his name,” sez she; “but it won’t niver be mine, for I’d die first”

‘ She tuck a rise out iv Patsey that time.

‘“Sure ye don’t mane Foxey Regan?” he cried out in his surprise.

“The same,” sez she, “an’ faix it’s no lie to call him so. Sure he’s foxey be name and foxey be natur, an’he’s got the soft side iv me daddy wid his owld talk about his money an’ his land.”

“‘But you’re not goin’ to marry the likes iy him, acushla? ”

“Not iv he wor strung in diamonds,” sez she, “not iv me own free will anyways.”

“What’s troublin’ ye thin,” sez he; “you’re yer own mistress,” sez he.

“The dad is troublin’ me,” sez she. “He’ll mek me marry the owld corrahawn—owld enough to be my father—whether I like it or whether I don’t”

“How can that be? ” sez he.

‘“Faix iv ye knew me dad,” sez she, “ye wouldn’t ax that foolish question. There’s no more rampagious man livin’ or more bent on his own way. Whin the fit takes him there’s no howldin’ him at all at all. Sure, that was how we left our own village and kem here a dozen years ago next Shrove.”

“Thin how was that now? ” sez Patsey.

“I dunno as I ought to tell ye,” sez Biddy; “an’ besides, I’ve not the ins an’ outs iv the story meself. But I have enough iv it to show ye the kind iv man dad is anyways. Wan night late he was cornin’ home through the village, an’ he had a small drop takin’, but nothing to signify. ’Twas a moonlight night, an’ he saw the village pump standin’ straight up black in the white light, wid it’s wan arm stretched out fominst it ““Good-night, naybour,’ sez me father; an’ he tuck the handle and shook it as if it wor a friend he had in it But the pump, iv coorse, sed nothin’ good nor bad.

“‘Have ye ne’er a tongue in yer head that ye can’t spake when yer spoken to? ’ sez me dad, gettin’ mad.

‘“But not a word was out iv the pump.

“For three straws I’d knock the ugly head off ye,’ sez me dad. But the pump gave no heed to him or his shoutin’.

“Do ye dare me? ’ sez me dad, facin’ up to the pump that stood there greggin’ him.

‘“Wid that he got ravin’ mad, and hit it a polthouge that nearly bruk his own knuckles, and the pain med him madder nor iver. So they fought rings round in the moonlight; but not a word nor a stir could he knock out iv the pump. The naybours wor drawn out iv their houses wid the shoutin’ and screechin’ he had as he danced round the pump, an’ batin’ it cruel, and darin’ it to come on; and they wor ready to split their sides wid laughin’ at the quare sight they had in it “ But me dad at last med a mad rush at the pump and slipped and smashed his nose agin the iron head iv it, and fell down sinseless on the roadside, an’ be the same token his nose is cracked from that day to this.

“He niver heard the end iv the story. Even the gossoons in the street tuck it up and would shout it afther him: ‘Who bet the iron man! ’ till wid the dint iv persecution they drav him dane out iv the place. Iv his temper was bad before it was worse afther, an’ I’m in fear an’ tremblin’ that he’ll mek me marry Foxey Regan in spite of meself unless-”

“Unless what? ” sez me foolish Patsey.

“Unless some wan I like better runs away wid me in the manetime.”

‘She laughed as if it was a joke she meant But she got redder nor iver as she sed it, and gev just wan quick look at Patsey. Thin she kep lookin’ down on the ground, and her little foot kep tappin’ the moss as fast as if it wor a jig she was dancin’.

“I hope ye won’t be driven to that,” sez the omadaun.

“It was only jokin’ I was,” sez she very smart, an’ edgin’ away from him.

“‘Sure, I know that iv coorse,” sez Patsey. “But I think I could find another way,” sez he, “ an’ an aisier way if you wor to lave it to me.”

“I’d be sorry to trouble ye in my affairs, Misther O’Rourke,” sez she, as cross as two sticks, whatever vexed her.

’” It’s no trouble in life, only a pleasure,” sez Patsey, so good-natured that her anger couldn’t stand agin him.

“Ye wor always kind-hearted,” sez she, lookin’ at him straight in the face, and tryin’ to smile at the same time. “Ye wor always kind-hearted and willin’, but this job is too hard for ye, I’m thinkin’.”

“There is no harm in tryin’,” sez Patsey, “an try I will this very night. Don’t fret, Miss Maguire, an’ keep a civil tongue in yer head to owld Foxey, an’ ’twill all come right in the end I’ll go bail. But now I must be goin’ to me work.”

‘Wid that, if you’ll belave me, without “wid yer lave or by yer lave,” the poor weak-minded omadaun turned his back on the purty colleen an’left her there afther him, not knowin’ whether to laugh or cry at the way he trated her.

‘Whin his work was done, Patsey, be way iv no harm, strolled down to the village fair and aisy, an’ as luck would have it the first man he saw was the man he wanted to see, Foxey Regan.

‘Foxey was dressed out, iv ye plaze, in his Sunday best, an’ it a wake day. His red hed was plastered and shinin’ wid hair oil, an’ his sandy whiskers clipped like a quick-set hedge. There was a smile an’ a smirk on the ugly phiz iv him that med Patsey wishful to bate him within an inch iv his life. The thought iv the likes iv him marryin’ purty Biddy Maguire was as disgustful to the boy as a caterpillar trailin’ itself over a red rose.

‘ But he kep’ a civil tongue in his head all the same, as he bid the colleen herself to do wid Foxey.

“Good momin’, Mr. Regan,” he sez, as polite as ye plaze. “Good momin’, Patsey,” sez Foxey Regan, “an’ I’m glad to hear you’re cornin’ on in the world.”

“Middlin’,” sez Patsey; “but what’s the good news I’m afther hearing about yerself? ”

‘“What news is that?” sez Foxey Regan, much surprised.

‘“That you’re goin’ to get married on our hands,” sez Patsey.

“Ah, thin, who towld ye that? ” sez Foxey.

‘“The colleen herself, Biddy Maguire,” sez Patsey.

“An’ she’s not ill-plazed at the thought iv it, I’ll go bail,” sez Foxey, wid a short laugh out iv him, for the consait iv the man was past puttin’ up wid.

“Faix, she thinks a dale iv ye, and she talked a dale iv ye, and there’s no denyin’ that,” sez me bowld Patsey wid a wink that was better nor a lie. “But she’s fearful her daddy has to be consulted in the business; she’s sed be him in everything.”

“‘He won’t be agin me, I’m thinkin’,” sez Foxey; but he didn’t seem to be sure iv himself aither. “It’s the money he’s always afther.”

‘“He’s a quare, cross-timpered man,” sez Patsey.

“He is that, an’ no mistake,” sez Foxey “an’ it’s hard to get on wid him.”

“Did ye iver hear tell,” sez Patsey, “why he left his own part iv the country? ”

“Niver, thin,” sez Foxey, “for as long as I’m listenin’ to him an’ lookin’ at him.”

‘“Bedad, thin, that’s a quare thing, too,” sez Patsey, “that he niver towld ye, for he’s mighty proud iv it He bet a grate champion that was in those parts, wan they called the ‘iron man,’ an’ there was no wan in the country round that would face him only Rory Maguire. But, bedad, he fought rings round wid him and left him for dead, so he did, an’ that’s why he had to quit the place.” “Now, do ye tell me so? ” sez Foxey.

“‘I do, then,” sez Patsey; “sure that’s the way his nose was bruk. Ye must oftentimes have noticed the cracked nose iv him? ”

“I did that,” sez Foxey.

’” Did ye iver spake to him about that same? ” sez Patsey.

“The sorra word, thin,” sez Foxey. “Sure, I didn’t know how he’d take it”

“Thin, how could he take it but well? ” sez Patsey, “an’ the grate fight he med agin the ‘iron man.’ If you’d listen to a fool’s advice, Mr. Regan, that’s the way to plaze him, an’ that’s the way to plaze the colleen herself into the bargain. He’ll be lettin’ on he doesn’t like it talked about But why would he go an’ tell the story to meself unless he was plazed wid it? If ye draw down the subject iv yer own accord whin ye meets him, an’ let him see that ye know the rights and wrongs iv the story, you’ll be surprised at the way he’ll take it, an’—whisper me here—you’ll plaze the colleen in that better agin than her daddy.”

‘“Faix, an’ I’ll have a thry, anyways,” sez Foxey. “I’m thinkin’ I’m the boy to put the comether on owld Rory.”

‘‘Twasn’t at all long after that that Foxey’s chance kem to him.

‘Rory Maguire axed him to dinner, an’ that itself was a good step in the match-makin’. Thin, becase Biddy remembered Fatsey’s advice, an’ was dacintly civil to the owld chap whin he kem, he consaited himself that the colleen was dyin’ iv love for him.

‘The dinner was a good one—a young harvest goose an’ a side iv bacon, wid the fat to it as clear as glass very near—an’ may we niver have worse all the days iv our lives. Owld Foxey ate his nuff wid wan eye on the goose an’ wan eye on the colleen, for it was there the squint stud his friend. Afther a short while Biddy med her excuses to run away, but, sure, she run no further than the keyhole iv the next door, being wishful, an’ small blame to her, to hear what they had to say about herself.

‘Me two boyos sat in the face iv their two big tumblers iv punch, an, for a while, the sorra word was out iv thim, only suppin’ an’ smackin’ their lips afther aich pull.

‘ Foxey was wishful to draw down the business iv the marriage an’ settle it out iv a face. But he thought to himself: “I’d best get the man iv the house in good humour in the first place.” For Rory Maguire was grumpy the best iv times, even wid the blessed liquor in front iv him.

“You’re a fine block iv a man yourself, God bless you, Mr. Maguire,” sez Foxey, beginnin’ out iv nothin’ at all.

‘Rory grunted, an’ tuck a pull at his drink in no way displazed.

“You’re mortial strong, I’ll go bail,” sez Foxey, keepin’ an eye on him still to see how he tuck it “I suppose I’m as strong as another,” sez Rory.

“‘An’ stronger, I’ll warrant ye,” sez Foxey.

“Ye wor in many a hard fight in yer day, I’m thinkin’.”

‘Rory watched him wicked out ivthe comer iv his eye, not knowin’ what was cornin’ next.

“• Whosomever did that damage to yer nose —not but ’tis a handsome nose all the time—ped dear for his handywork I’ll go bail.”

“Let me an’ me nose be, Foxey Regan; ’tis the best iv yer play,” sez Rory, wid a growl all as wan as a cross dog that you’d stir from his place fominst the fire.

“He’s lettin’ on to be vexed,” sez Foxey to himself “Bedad, Patsey the Omadaun was right In the business; but for as cute as he thinks himself, I can see it is well plazed he is.”

“Sure, I heard tell all about it,” he sez out loud.

“‘You’d better kape yer ugly mouth shut about it if ye did,” sez Rory; an’ it was a roar that was out iv him this time instead iv a growl.

“‘Bedad, an’ he’d mek a wonderful playactor,” sez Foxey to himself.

“An’,” sez he out loud again, “you gev him his nuif iv it I’m towld.”

“Honamondoul, but I’ll give ye more than yer nuflf if ye don’t howld yer blasted tongue,” sez Rory.

“Falx, this is the quare lettin’ on,” sez Foxey, “yu’d almost think it was vexed he was all the time.”

“They do be talkin’ Iv It in thim parts still,” sez he agin.

‘At that Rory cud stand it no longer. He jumped on his feet fit to be tied, and shouted like a mad bull, roarin’: “If there’s wan other word out iv ye I’ll brake ivery bone in yer dirty carcass—do ye hear that now?—and knock yer two eyes into wan.”

“Same as ye did to the iron man,” sez Foxey Regan, thinkin’ to plaze him.

‘Wid that, me dears, Rory med one lep at him across the table like a ragin’ lion, givin’ no heed at all to the blessed liquor that he spilt and wasted, kn’ he grabbed me poor Foxey wid wan hand be the scruff iv the neck an’ the other be the slack iv the trousers, an’ betune hawlin’ an’ kickin’ an’ bumpin’ an’ draggin’ he got him from the room, an’ sint him head over heels out into the dauber iv the boreen.

‘Poor Foxey picked himself up, muddy, muddled, an’ sore, out iv the boreen. Sez he to himself, sez he, as he wint limpin’ down the hill to the village: “Troth, if the man was well plazed wid me talk iv the iron man he had a quare way iv showin’ it.” ’

CHAPTER VI

HOW PATSEY CHEATED THE DEVIL

So far Patsey’s adventures had run in the ordinary jog-trot of every-day life. Suddenly, without a warning, they went off at a tangent into the supernatural.

It was a blazing hot day in the middle of June when I next found my way to the tailor’s attic. Perhaps it was the heat which suggested the story which follows.

My carefully saved pocket-money, eightpence halfpenny, had provided liquid refreshment for my three friends, of which it might be said Peter Rattigan had the ‘lion’s share,’ if lion ever drank porter. With the improvidence of youth, Mickey Costigan finished his pint at a draught Darby and Peter imbibed the porter in small sips, and let the pleasant cool liquor flow gently down their parched throats.

‘It’s mortial hot, said Mickey, gazing at them with envy, and then at the shining bottom of his own empty pint ‘It’s mortial hot Tell us the owld story, Peter, how Patsey the Omadaun sowld himself to Owld Nick.’

‘G’long out iv that’ said Peter rebukingly, ‘sure that id be the quare story to tell before young childher. Have you no sinse or dacincy in ye, Mickey Costigan, at all at all? ’

‘Divil a harm I see in it’ said Mickey, defiantly. ‘I wouldn’t mind doing the same thing meself iv I cud make sure to slip out iv the bargain afterwards.’

‘Listen to that, now, cried Peter in horror. ‘Sure I’m no scholar meself, but I always heard tell ’twas agin rules an’ regulations to have any dalins good nor bad with the owld boy.’

‘Arrah, sure the priests thimsilves dales wid him, interposed Darby Fathy, ‘iyery day iv th’ week, scowldin’ and balraggin’ him, banishin’ him out iv this place an’ out iv that, chatin’ him out iv sowls he med sure iv. Sorra harm it id be to knock a bit iv money out iv the owld boy at the same time, iv a body was able.’

‘That’s what Bryan Mulligan thought,’ said Peter; ‘but sorry enough he was for it afterwards.’

‘Who was Bryan Mulligan, Peter? ’ I innocently inquired.

‘ Can’t ye wait until ye hear, Master Watty? I can’t say iverything at the wan time, an’ only wan man’s tongue in me head. He was a near frind an’ naybour of Patsey the Omadaun’s, be raison that they wor at school togither and mitched to-gither, and wor the two last in the class ever an’ always; an’ furthermore that Patsey wan time pulled Bryan out iv a bog hole whin he was goin’ down as fast as you’d drive a nail into a dale board. Well, thin, I’m towld-’

‘Who towld ye? ’ interrupted Mickey Costigan, whom the hot weather and the empty pint made peevish.

Peter turned on him with withering scorn. ‘Who towld me, is it? Faix, if ye knew that you’d be as wise as meself. Well, thin, I’m towld,’ he began again, with a challenge in his voice; ‘ I’m towld be thim that ought to know, that wan evenin,’ as Patsey was sittin’ be himself in his cottage, radin’ a book that Biddy Maguire lint him, about a man an’ a dissolute island, an’ the quare things he done there, Bryan Mulligan kem bouncin’ into the room to him, lookin’ so quare that Patsey didn’t know him from Adam for the first start. His face was as pale as the bauneen I have me needle in, an’ his two eyes like saucers burstin’ out iv his head.

“What’s the matther wid ye, Bryan? ” sez Patsey, lookin’ up from his book.

‘ The divil a word Bryan cud get out iv him for five minnits only a stammerin’ and stutterin’ that had no sort iv right manin’ in it Thin, all iv a suddin, he called out in a voice that wasn’t a bit % like his own, as if some wan else was spakin’ inside iv him:

“I sowld meself to the divil, Patsey.”

Mickey and Darby, who had plainly heard the story before, at this dramatic declaration broke into a storm of ‘tch, tch’ to express a pleasing horror of the awful profanity of the performance.

I listened dumfounded, with open mouth and ears and eyes, as it were, swallowing the tale with every sense I had. For in those days the devil was to me a person as real as Peter himself—a terrible, red-hot person with long tail and horns and claws, who might carry off little boys if they were naughty.

Peter resumed his story, pleased with the effect “Thin what med ye do a foolish action like that, Bryan?” sez Patsey, not a hair turned on him. “Sure, haven’t ye lots and lavins iv yer own, an’ a fine place iv a farm, an’ a low rent, an’ what should ye go for to sell yerself to the owld boy whin ye could sell a cow or the like to a naybour iv ye wanted a few pounds?”

“Sure, ye don’t know the rights iv the stoiy at all,” sez poor Bryan. “Didn’t Foxey Regan,” sez he, “buy the place over me head? ”

“‘An’ what matther iv he did itself?” sez Patsey; “sure, ye have a lase iv it the same as I have iv me own, an’ ye can snap yer fingers at him,” sez he.

‘“Bedad, that was the murther iv the thing intirely, that me lase was no use to me,” sez Bryan. “I ped me year’s rint to the owld landlord, an’ Foxey kem at me for it over agin Thin I found me resates wor lost, wheresomever they’re gone to, and Foxey threatened to put me out on the road if the money wasn’t ped on the nail; an’ there was Judy Cassidy in the question, too, an’ she an’ I courtin’. It was small blame to me for cursin’ and sweatin’ in the pucker I was in. ‘May the divil recave me sowl,’ sez I, be way iv no harm at all, an’ not thinkin’ iv what I was sayin\ But, bedad, the words wor no sooner out iv me mouth than the owld boy himself was there fominst me.

“He was dressed all in black, like a ‘souper,’ but whin I looked down at his boots sorra thing he had but two round knobs, as if it wor wood legs he had in it “‘I’m ready and willin’,’ sez he to me, wid a grin on his ugly face “‘Willin’ for what? ’ sez meself.

“‘To take what ye offered,’ sez he, “and pay the market price for it’

““Is it me sowl ye mane?’ sez I.

“‘What else? ’ sez he.

“ An’ what do ye want to do wid it,’ sez I, ‘if yc got it? ’

“‘That’s my business,’ sez he. “Whin it’s me own,’ sez he, ‘I can trate it as me own and do what I like wid it’

“Well, if you belave me, I was that moidered that I hardly knew what I was doin’, an’ he was so aisy-goin an’ so civil-spoken that he overpersuaded me to part wid me sowl to him for a hundred pounds, on the condition that I was to have the use iv it meself for a matter iv twinty years. He put it in writin’, an’ med me sign it But he didn’t ax no blood iv me. He sed red ink was as good, an’ there wasn’t wan in a hundred cud tell the differ.

“‘He ped the money down, a hundred goold sovereigns in a bag that he tuk from undher his coat, an’ I do declare to ye they wor hot to the touch, like milk that is just come from the cow.

“Well, I wint an’ ped owl’ Foxey the money he was axin’ off me for the rint, an’ I got the resate this time all right, I promise ye. The seventy-five pounds I had over out iv the hundred I locked up in a drawer. But whin I wint to it the next day to get the price iv a drink, for I was mortial thirsty at the thought iv what was before me in the long run, there was a big hole ye cud put yer fist through burned in the bottom iv the table, an’ ivery rap fardin’ iv the money was gone out iv it “Bedad that tuck a start out iv me, I can tell ye. I thought to meself he cud grab me poor sowl the same way that he grabbed the money whin-ever he has a mind to it, an’ the sight an’ smell iv the bumin’ put quare thoughts an’ notions in me head that was no ways at all agreeable. I thought, Patsey, • mebbe yerself, being so great wid the good people an’ al that, would be able to give me a helpin’ hand out iv the hobble I’m in.”

“Faix, an’ I’m afraid the owld boy will stick to his bargain,” sez Patsey, “more betoken as he has got back the money he ped for yer sowl; I’m thinkin’ he tuck his share iv Foxey Regan’s the same way that he tuck it off yerself.”

“Ye might spake him fair, Patsey, an’ try to put the comether on him,” sed Bryan. “Coaxin’ might do whin scoldin’ wouldn’t”

“Indade, thin, I’m thinkin’,” sez Patsey, “he’s gone off wid his winners, an’ it would be hard to get spache wid him.”

“They do be sayin’,” sez Bryan, “that if ye say the Lord’s Prayer backwards he’s bound to come to ye.”

“Faix, I wouldn’t like to thry,” sez Patsey; “it wouldn’t be right or lucky, an’ to tell ye no lie I’m put to the pin iv me collar to say it frontways itself.”

“Mebbe he’d come agin the way I brought him,” sez Bryan. “Just let a curse out iv ye, Patsey—me sowl to the divil, or the divil recave toe sowl—or words ivthe kind, an’ I’ll go bail he’ll come hoppin’, seein’ what luck he had in the business before.”

“I’ll do me endayvour,” sez Patsey, who was always a soft-hearted, civil-spoken boy, an’ had no thought at all iv the troubles he might be gettin’ himself into. “I’ll do me endayvour, an’ do ye go home at wanst an’ don’t be frettin’ yerself over this business. Sure ye have twinty years before ye all but wan day iv the worst kem to the worst.”

It was a fine moonlight night, an’ Patsey wint out wid himself to a small three-cornered haggard beyont the gable ind iv the house.

“Sure if there’s any burnin’ or the like to be done,” sez he, “it’s safer here nor in the house.”

‘ He didn’t care much for the job he was afther, but he was niver the wan to go back on a frind.

‘He med belave to put his foot agin a stone, an’ let a curse out iv him, “May the divil belave me,” wor the words out iv his mouth, but he muttered it that ways that unless you wor close up be him you’d take yer Bible oath it was “recave ” he sed.

‘ Well, me dears, he thricked the owld boy the first dale anyways, for the words wor no sooner out iv his mouth whin there was the divil fominst him dressed for all the world like a “jumper.” Thim that sez die divil is not as black as he’s painted sez more than their prayers, for he is, and a dale blacker.

“Good-night, Patsey O’Rourke,” sez he, takin’ off his hat as polite as ye plaze.

‘“Faix, ye have the advantage iv me,” sez Patsey.

“Me name is Nicholas,” sez the other. “Some people call me Owld Nick,” sez he, “but I don’t like it It’s vulgar,” sez he, “an’ too familiar, an’ besides, I’m not so owld as that comes to,” sez he.

‘“An’ what may yer business be wid me, Nicholas? ” sez Patsey, as stiff as ye plaze.

“Faix, an’ that’s a quare question to ax me,” sez Nicholas, “an’ ye afther callin’ me. But iv ye want to know,” sez he, “I’m a dailer in sowls,” sez he, “an’ I’d give the best price goin’,” sez he, “if ye had anything iv that kind for sale.”

“It’s a swop I was thinkin’ of,” sez Patsey. “You have got the revairsion iv the sowl iv a frind iv mine, a boy be the name iv Bryan Mulligan, an’ dirt chape ye got it too. I’m wishful to know what ye would be willin’ to take on yer bargain.”

“I don’t want to part wid it,” sez Nicholas.

“Thin I won’t be wastin’ yer time or me own talkin’ to ye; so good-night an’”—it was on the tip iv his tongue to say “an’ God speed ye,” but he just stopped himself in the nick iv time, rememberin’ who it was he had in it.

‘Sure it’s all the same wid divils an’ Christians, I think. The wan side gets hot on a bargain as the other side cools on it Nicholas stopped an’ he half way gone an’ kem back agin. “ Sure there’s no sinse in loosin’ yer timper over a matter iv the kind,” sez he. “I’m willin’ to listen to what ye have got to say for yerself, anyways.”

“Who’s loosin’ his timper? ” sez Patsey, lettin’ on he was sulky. “But I have a betther soul meself than e’er a wan iv the Mulligans iver owned.”

“Sure I’m not sayin’ agin that,” sez Nicholas.

“An’ I’d be wantin’ good boot on a swop,” sez Patsey.

“Is it that’s what yer afther? ” sez Nicholas. “An’ what good would Bryan Mulligan’s sowl be to ye iv ye had it itself? ”

“‘I cud sell it back to him at a good profit,” sez Patsey.

‘“Betther for you to get a good price for yer pwn,” sez Nicholas.

“I’d sooner have Bryan’s money nor yours any day iv the week,” sez Patsey, lookin’ at him straight in the face.

‘The divil is not much good for blushin’, I’m towld, but a kind iv red came and wint in bis face, all as wan as iv ye lit a candle inside his head and put it out agin.

‘“Bryan Mulligan’s a good, honestsowl, an’ I’d be loath to part wid it,” sez Nicholas, changin’ the subject “An’ mine is a betther,” sez Patsey, “any day iv the week. Bryan takes a drop iv drink now and again, and lets an odd curse out iv him. But I’m as good as a teetotaler meself. Besides,” sez he, seein’ as Nicholas was givin’ into him, “it’s a long lase ye had to give him iv the place—the sowl, I mane—an’ ye couldn’t tell what the law’d be whin ye kem to take possession. I’d be contint meself wid a lettin’ from year to year, or wan year sartin, iv we cud come to terms.”

“Now ye talk sinse,” sez Nicholas. “Small profits an’ quick returns was always the word wid me iver since I tuck to dalin’ in sowls. What would ye be askin’? ”

“What would ye be givin’? ” sez Patsey.

“It’s for ye to name the price,” sez Nicholas.

“Well, thin, if ye put it to me that ways,” sez Patsey, “I’ll swop me sowl for Bryan Mulligan’s,” sez he, “an’ you’ll hand me over his lase,” sez he, “an’ sorra lase I’ll ax, good or bad, iv me own, only a yearly tinancy,” sez he; “but I’ll want boot,” sez he. “A hundred pounds down,” sez he, “an’ wan other thing that I’ll tell ye whin our bargain is med,” sez he.

“An’ what is yer wan other thing,” sez Nicholas, as cute as ye plaze. “I’m not goin’ to buy a pig in a poke,” sez he.

“It’s an aisy thing,” sez Patsey. “Are ye a good hand at jumpin’? “

‘“The best,” sez Nicholas.

“Well, thin, I’ll only ax ye to throw a jump on the spot I mention; an’ it won’t be five fut from where you’re standin’ this minute, I promise ye.”

‘Wid that Nicholas began laughin’ to himself at the aisy job that was before him, an’ he med sure it was an innocent gomeril he had in it, an’ he was in a grate hurry to finish the bargain, for that class iv sowl is not aisy come by in the ordinary coorse iv business.

•“Done wid ye,” he sez, and spat on his fist to clinch the bargain- But Patsey thought he heard a quare hissm,iike grace on a fryin’pan, on the minnnit and he kept his own hand safe behind his back.

‘“There’s wan thing that’s troublin’ me yit,” sez he. “How do I know that it’s yerself that’s in it at all?”

“What do ye mane be that? ” sez Nicholas.

‘“You are not in the laste like the divils I see in the holy pictures,” sez Patsey.

“I’d frighten ye iv I tuck me rale shape,” sez Nicholas.

“Sorra ah wan bit,” sez Patsey.

‘Thin the divil stood out forninst him an’ he began to grow red hot, like a poker that’d be a good while in the fire, an’ the clothes fell off him in smokin’ rags an’ ashes, an’ the smell was most odious. Whin the smoke cleared off Patsey saw him standin’ there in his bare pelt, savin’ yer prisince, an’ two big horns out iv him like an owld buck goat, an’ a tail like the handle iv a pump. The red heat wint but iv him be slow degrees till he was as black as yer boot.

‘“I hope there’s no danger yer honour will take cowld standin’ that ways without yer clothes in the night air,” sez Patsey.

‘“There’s not the laist chance iv that,” sez Nicholas; an’ his voice was so sad as he sed it that Patsey had a kind iv snakin’ pity for him at the time.

“‘I hope ye are satisfied wid me now,” sez Nicholas.

‘“Well, thin, yer honour’s no beauty,” sez Patsey, “if the truth must be towld; but you’re puttier than a ‘souper ’ any day.”

“‘Handsome is that handsome does,” sez Nicholas, “an’ I’ve given ye yer own price,” sez he.

“I’m not denyin’ that,” sez Patsey, ‘‘but-”

“What’s troublin’ ye now? ” sez Nicholas.

“It’s sich a small thing,” sez Patsey, “that I hardly like to mintion it. But I always heard tell that people that sowld thimselves to the—that had any dalins at all wid yer honour, lost their shadows from that day out; an’ that same would be mighty onconvaynient, an’ the naybours would be apt to make remarks, speciallay if walkin’ wid a body on a sunshiny day.”

‘“Oh, that’s all owld women’s talk about shadows,” sez Nicholas; “you need take no heed to it I promise naythur hurt nor harm will come to your shadow while you are there to cast it, be the time short or long. If ye doubt me word look at me own.”

‘Upon me troth, he had as iligant a shadow as Christian or divil could ax, as black as himself in the white moonlight, an’ the tail to it stretchin’ half-way across the paddock very near.

“That’s good enough for me,” sez Patsey.

‘ Thin Nicholas drew up the paper an’ Patsey put his name to it, an’ Nicholas handed him over the lase iv Bryan Mulligan’s sowl, an’ it’s to the fore yit, wid wan corner iv it scorched wid hot finger marks to prove it’s the truth I’m tellin’.

‘The bag iv goold was the next thing—a hundred sovereigns as hot as new-laid eggs with the hate iv his body.

“An’ that’s all, I think,” said Nicholas; “an’ now I must be goin’.”

“There’s wan more thing,” sez Patsey.

“‘Oh, that job in the way iv leppin’,” sez Nicholas, lettin’ a laugh out iv him; “I was forget-tin’ that.”

“Troth, I wasn’t,” sez Patsey..

‘“Tell me where I’m to lep to,” sez Nicholas, “until I do it at wanst, for I’m in a bit Iv a hurry.”

“‘You must wait till yer hurry is over,” thought Patsey; but out loud he sez: “I’m only axin’ ye to lep on yer own shadow that’s there forninst ye on the ground.”

“‘What part,” sez Nicholas, ‘‘if ye have a choice in it? ”

‘“I’ve no choice in that,” sez Patsey, “any part ye plaze is good enough for me.”

‘“Faix, that’s aisy done,” sez Nicholas, “here goes! ”

‘ Wid that he med wan leap sideways, thinkin’ to land on the shadow iv his own head that was lyin’ quite an’ aisy on the grass beside him. But for as quick as he was the shadow was gone before him. He med for his tail the next time, thinkin’ wid a back summersault to come down on the long black line that was stretchin’ like a rope behind him; but faix, the shadow turned smarter than what he did, as diver as he thought himself, an’ was behind him still whin he landed.

‘Thin he got mad intirely, and let himself out at the work in rale airnest The divil sich a leppin’ match was iver seen before or sinse. A buck jumpin’ mule was aisy goin’ be comparison. He lepped high an’ he lepped low, an’ sideways, an’ longways, an’ he twisted himself inside Out, an’ upside down, till Patsey couldn’t tell wan side iv him from the other, an’ the swish iv his tail wint through the air like a cuttin’ whip at every bound he gave. But sorra wan toe cud he set on a corner iv his own shadow all the time.

‘He stopped at last clane bet, an’ that hated wid his jumpin’ an’ prancin’ that blue flame kem from him at every pant he gave like the flame from the blacksmith’s fire wid the puffin’ iv the bellows.

“Ye skamer iv the world,” sez he to Patsey, as soon as he cud get his voice back from the pantin’, “an’ what sort iv a fool’s trick is this that ye played on me? Sure it’s chatin’ a poor divil out iv of what he bought fair an’ honest, an’ ped for as well.”

“‘A bargain is a bargain, Nicholas,” sez me bowld Patsey, “an’ sorra taste iv me sowl will ye get till ye lep on yer own shadow, me boyo.”

“Who wants yerself or yer dirty owld sowl,” sez Nicholas, his temper gettin’ the betther iv him at the way that he was done, “sure I wouldn’t touch it wid a tongs.”

“Troth an’ I’m right glad iv that same,” sez Patsey, “for I’m no ways wishful iv the tongs or the fire of the place you come from. An’ now I’ll be sayin’ good-night to ye; it’s time for daycint people to be in their warm beds,” sez he, “though some may find thim too warm. Good-night, Nicholas, me owld boy, an’ may yer shadow niver be less.”

‘Whin Nicholas saw it was jokin’ him Patsey was, the anger ruz in him to that extint that he flamed up like a bit iv paper you’d throw in the fire, an’ Patsey was near blinded be the blazes iv him. But when his eyesight kem back sorra thing was left iv his frind Nicholas, only a bad smell.

‘Patsey put his bag iv goold in wan pocket an’ the lase in the other, an’ wint off wid his winners to his frind Bryan Mulligan.

‘Ye may take yer oath that me poor Bryan was right glad to get back the lase iv his own sowl for he had naythur paise or aise since he parted wid it to Owld Nick. But whin Patsey tuck the bag iv money out iv the other pocket Bryan med bowld to warn him agin meddlin’ wid the like. “ Take a fool’s advice, Patsey,” sez he, ‘‘an’ throw it from you somewhere that it can do no harm with bumin’ an’ blazin’. Throw it from you, in the river for a preference, an’ if the poor divil gets a sup iv cowld water whin he comes to look for it, sure we needn’t grudge him that same afther all he has gone through.”

‘But Patsey was headstrong as a pig on a cross-road whin he tuck a notion, an’ nothin’ would plaze him for as late as it was but to go down to Foxey Regan’s for a drink, carryin’ the bag iv money along wid him.

‘Foxey was closin’ at the time he heard the knock, an’ no wan in the bar parlour only himself, but he put his ugly head out at wanst “Good-night, Mr. Regan,” sez Patsey.

‘” Ah, thin, is that yerself, Patsey? ” sez Foxey, whin he saw be the voice who it was he had in it; “an’ what brings you out this hour iv the night, an’ where are ye off to? ”

“It’s goin’ home I am,” sez Patsey. “Troth I med a good bargain to-day wid what I had to sell, an’ I thought I’d trate meself to a drink on the way home, an’ indade I’ll be glad if you’ll jine me in that same yourself, Mr. Regan.”

“An’ why not, to be sure,” sez Foxey, settin’ the drink wid his own hands on the table.

‘Patsey tuck a gold sovereign from his bag an’ gave it to Foxey be way iv payment ‘Foxey’s two eyes near jumped out iv his head with covetishness at the sight iv the goold. For he was niver more aiger for money than that same night, as it happened.

‘The twenty-five pounds that he got from Bryan Mulligan, be way iv rent that was ped twice over, he put in the iron box that he got all the way from Dublin—a safe was the name he called it by. But, faix, it didn’t stand to its name that time. In the momin’ there was a big hole burnt in the iron all the same as if it wor med iv brown paper, an’ the money gone from him, an’ he at the cost iv a tinker to put a new bottom to the safe. At the very time that Patsey kem, he was as hungry for money as a dog id be wid a bone snapped from him.

“Many a time ye did me, me boyo,” sez he to himself, wid wan eye on me poor innocent Patsey an’ wan on the bag iv goold, “but, faix, it’s my turn now.”

‘Wid that he kem behind Patsey be way iv fixin’ the glasses more tidy like, an’ whipped up the bag iv goold an’ clapped it undher his oxter. The money jingled as he snapped it up, but Patsey niver let on to hear.

“I’ll go an’ get change iv yer sovereign,” sez he to Patsey, “an’ take the price iv the drink out iv it”

‘But whin he got himself outside in the shop an’ the dure shut on him, he emptied the bag iv goold out on the counter an’ he filled the bag up agin wid the money he had in the till, halfpince and pinnies and shillins, such as they wor, wid an odd half-crown an’ two-shillin’ piece. Thin he swep’ the goold off the counter into the till an’ locked it, an’ back wid him hot fut into the parlour wid nineteen shillins an’ two pince in the heel iv his fist for change out iv the sovereign that Patsey gave him at the first goin’ off.

‘He put the bag back beside Patsey as he edged past the table, and he gave him his change all right an’ regular.

‘Patsey med no delay afther that, but counted his change an’ finished his drink, tuck his bag from the table without heedin’ any differ in the feel or the weight iv it, an’ off wid him into the dark night, lavin’ Foxey behind laughin’ himself sick very near at the diver trick he had played on the omadaun.

‘ But, faix, Foxey laughed the other side iv his mouth the next momin’ whin he had the carpenter in to put a new bottom to his till, wid a quare cock an’ bull story that it was a match he dropped out iv his hand lightin’ his pipe that burned the big round hole in it.’

CHAPTER VII

HOW PATSEY FOUND A SWEETHEART

‘Howld yer whist, Mickey,’ said Peter Rattigan;

‘ ye are always puttin’ in yer owld goster whin its not wanted.’

The interruption was unkind and uncalled for. Mickey Costigan at the moment was delighting the majority of his audience of three It was the day after All Hallows Eve—the most weird and fascinating of Irish festivals—that I met my friends of the goose and needle at the customary. At Home’ on the tailors’ board. I was still full of delightful recollections of the nuts and apples and tricks and charms of the night before, and my prattle tempted Mickey Costigan to launch out into some of the quaint legends appropriate to the time in which the devil, or the ‘old boy,’ as he was more familiarly termed, played a prominent part I listened open-eared and open-mouthed, all in a tremble with delicious terror. Even the far less emotional Darby Fathy had let his ‘ dhudeen ’ go out in the interest of the stories.

There is room therefore for the suggestion that it was professional envy that prompted Peter Rattigan’s rude interruption.

‘ Howld yer whist, Mickey Costigan,’ he said again, ‘whin yer elders are spakin’.’

Alas for the fickleness of popular favour! Both Darby Fathy and myself turned approvingly from the disconcerted Mickey to the domineering Peter.

‘What do ye know about Hallow Eve,’ he went on, without giving Mickey time to slip in a word edgeways, except what ye hear tell iv from yer elders an’ betthers, an’, troth, yer a good warrant to give the wrong twist to that same. Bedad, I could tell stories iv All Hallow, iv I’d a mind to that id soon take the coal iv yer pipe, me gossoon.’

The fickle public of two—or, to speak by the book, of one and a half—joined in entreaties for the story, Mickey Costigan constituting himself the critical minority, though even his indifference was only half-affected. Peter, with apparent reluctance yielded at last to our entreaties.

‘Sure iv I must, I must, I suppose; so here goes if ye’re wishful to hear how Patsey the Omadaun found a sweetheart ‘All Hallow Eve was always a great day in thim parts. On the night I’m tellin’ ye iv—an’ it’s not so long ago, naythur—the naybours, young an’ owld, all gathered down to the big room in Foxey Regan’s place—not from any great wish they had for the man himself, but bekase there was no other room in the village half big enough to howld the quarter iv thim.

‘Bedad, iv I had tin tongues on me, I couldn’t tell ye all the goin’s on iv the night They had nuts an’ apples galore, an’ all the divarshins an’ pishogues iv the time The colleens wor on the look-out for the bachelors, an’ the bachelors for their colleens; but they niver drew down the divil in the business at all at all, wid the plantin’ iv hemp seed or the sayin’ iv the “Our Father ” backwards, the same as other people, but trusted to the blissid Saints to do what was fair an’ dacint for thim.

‘Well, me dears, Patsey the Omadaun was there, at the top an’ bottom iv all the divarshin that was goin’ forward, but niver makin’ more free wid wan colleen than another, an’ mebbe that was bekase purty Biddy Maguire wasn’t to the fore, an’ mebbe it wasn’t ‘Twas Patsey that tuck his mouthful iv tripenny bits out iv the bottom iv the tub iv wather, an’ it was Patsey that caught the big apple that was bobbin’ out on the top like—”

‘I tuck the big apple meself last night,’ inter-rupted incautious Mickey Costigan.

Peter eyed him steadily for a minute. ‘Faix, an’ I wouldn’t doubt ye, me bouchal,’ he said slowly, ‘an’ ye wid a mouth on ye like an oysther, an’ only a small hinge at the back iv yer poll to kape yer head from cornin’ in two halves.’

Poor Mickey subsided, and Peter went on placidly with his story.

‘ But Patsey did betther nor that agin. They hung down the four cross sticks be a long cord from the ceilin’, as was right an’ proper the night that was in it On wan ind iv the stick they put a lighted candle, an’ on another ind they tied a bag iv flour, an’ on another agin a good thick lump iv a log iv wood, an’ on the last ind iv all a big rosy apple, the finest that was grown in the parish that year. Thin they gev the cross sticks a spin an’ they dared the best to ketch the apple as it wint round like a red circle, wid the candle an’ the bag iv flour an’ the log iv wood all followin’ hot fut afther it.

‘ Faix, there was a dale iv titterin’ an’ twitterin’ among the company, boys an’ girls, that was gathered in a circle, an’ now wan an’ now another would make a short snap at the apple an’ draw back agin in the divil iv a hurry.

‘The colleens cried shame on the boys that there was no spunk left in thim at all at all. Till at last, wan an’ all, they kem at Patsey the Oma-daun to have a thry for it ‘Troth, ‘twas a ticklish job, mind ye, an’ the whole thing spinnin’ like mad wid a whish as it wint ‘Sorra word Patsey sed, but drew back his head for a minnit from the whirly-gig.

‘Did ye iver see a gannet drive at a fish an’ nail him wid his bake in the depths iv the say ?

‘Patsey’s head wint suddint as that into the flyin’ circle, an’ the next minnit the circle bruk up, an’ the bit iv a candle an’ the bag iv flour an’ the log iv wood wor all standin’ stock still wid a shiver through thim an’ me bowld Patsey’s teeth met in the big apple.

‘Owld Foxey Regan had always a grate concait out iv himself that he was fit to do what anywan else could do. So nothin’ would plaze him, me dears, but that he should show off at the same trick, an’ the company was ready enough to humour him. An’ the colleens—the sly little divils—kep’ proddin’ him on to thry it He gathered himself together for a plunge, an’ in wid him.

‘He missed the apple in his dive, an’ round kem the candle and tuck him on the jaw, an’ singed the foxey whiskers iv him. Thin the bag iv flour bruk over him like a snow-storm, an’ put out the fire, an’, not to be bet be either iv thim, the log iv wood kem round after thim an’ met him a polthouge under the butt iv the lug that tumbled him over into the tub iv water.

‘There was great jokin’ an’ laughin’ at his downfall; for Foxey was no favourite.

‘I’ve tould you the ins and outs iv the business becase the quare thing that happened to Foxey Regan that night put a quare thought in Patsey’s head that helped him well another time, an’ mebbe I’ll tell ye that, too, whin I come to it ‘Well, me dears, they picked poor Foxey up out iv the tub an’ stuk him to dry fominst the fire, an’ the colleens put the comether on him how sorry they wor for his misfortune, an’ they hardly able to get the words straight out iv their mouths wid the dint iv the laughin’. But, faix, me bowld Foxey got even wid them whin he came to charge for the room.

‘Afther that they put the cross sticks away an tuk to tryin’ fortins, an’ many is the quare trick they had wid thim.

‘The colleens wor a bit shy over the business at first goin’ off, and wan was pushin’ the other till at long last me bowld Judy Cassidy tuck the lade an’ planted two nuts down on the hob iv the fire that was hot very near.

“Wan iv thim stands for meself,” she sez; “but faix, I don’t know who the other wan stands for,” sez she, “for sure, I niver had a sweetheart, good nor bad.”

‘They all roared laughin’ at her whin she sed it, for sorra girl in the parish was more run afther than the same Judy, barrin’ purty Biddy Maguire.

“‘Let it stand for Bryan Mulligan,” cried a small slip iv a colleen; an’ whether Judy put her up to say it or not sorra wan iv me knows, but the two wor great friends anyway by all accounts.

‘ Poor Bryan only scratched his head, an’ sed nothin’, for he was a shy boy at the best iv times; an’ there was more than wan iv the colleens that was in hopes that he would bounce away from Judy on the red-hot hob. But, faix, the girl was too diver for the likes iv that She had dried the two nuts in the oven at home at her own place before she brought thim, an signs on it they burned on steady side by side until they wor gone into ashes, which is a grate sign, as all the world knows, that they would live an’ die together.

‘ Thin the other colleens kem crowdin’ to the fire, an’ it was a case iv who’d be first insted iv last to plant two nuts on the hob; an’ some burned quite an’ some popped off wid a bang, an’ there was a dale iv laughin’ an’ jokin’ over it, an’ the boys that burned quite wid the colleens swore be the nuts, an’ the boys that bounced off sed there was no truth in that kind iv nonsinse at all at all ‘But there was nothin’, they all agreed, to bate the winnowin’ or the ball iv cotton to thry yer fortin or to find a sweetheart The hempseed isn’t too bad a plan either, only the “owld boy,” they say, has a hand in it.

‘Then they all kem at Judy agin to thry her fortin’ wid a riddle full iv corn.

‘Ye don’t know the way iv it, Master Watty?’ Peter interrupted himself to explain. ‘Troth, thin, an’ I can tell ye handy enough. The colleen that is afther a husband takes a riddle full iv corn alone be herself in the bam, an’ winnows it on to the flure. If she finish the job widout nobody cornin’ to help her, troth she’ll live an’ die an owld maid. But if she’s to be marrid the figure iv the man that she’s goin’ to marry will come behind her an’ take the riddle from her hand before she’s half way through wid her job an’ finish the work out iv a face.

‘«Niver say it twice,” sez Judy Cassidy, who was always full iv fun an’ divilmint; an’ off wid her helter-skelter, wid her shawl over her head, across the haggard to the bam, which was no more nor a stone’s throw from the house.

‘ She tuck down a riddle that was hangin’ be the bam dure, filled it full up iv the oats that was piled on the flure, an’ set-to like mad winnowin’ it, singin’ all the time to herself the owld tune, “The Wind that Shakes the Barley,” to kape her spirit up, for the place was lonesome.

‘The moon was bright in the sky, but small good that was to the poor colleen wid the dure shut behind her. For the world knows the pishogue won’t work only wid closed dures.

‘ The bam was pitch dark, an’ the little strakes iv white where the moonshine was cuttin’in be the edges iv the dure med the darkness blacker nor what it was before. Poor Judy winnowed away for the bare life, half sorry that she had come there at all, half hopin’ some wan would stale out iv the dark to help her, an’ yit frightened very near out iv her skin at the thought iv it In the dead silence she could hear the corn rattlin’ on the barn flute like hailstones on a window pane, an’ her own frightened heart batin’ very near as quick.

‘But she wasn’t half way through wid the winnowin’ whin she felt the air stirrin’ an’ shadows movin’ towards her across the barn.

‘She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry she was that plazed an’ frightened at the same time; but she only wint on wid her winnowin’ faster nor before.

‘A hand out iv the dark touched her hand on the edge iv the riddle an’ thin another on the other side, an’ the girl let it go wid him an’ stood’ there pantin’ wid the fright at the quareness iv it Thin the riddle wint faster than before, as if there wor strong arms shakin’ it, an’ the corn rattled down louder than ever on the barn flure. Judy edged herself round a small taste till she got the thing that was shakin’ the riddle betune her an’ the strake iv light at the bam dure, an’ she saw that the ghost was straight an’ big an’ very much like Bryan Mulligan in appearance.

‘Thin the quarest thing iv all happened. All iv a suddint the ghost dropped the riddle an’ clapped an arm round the colleen’s waist an’ gev her a hearty smack iv a kiss on the mouth—for all the world like a rale Christian—an’ she med sure on the minnit ’twas Bryan himself she had in it ‘How could she tell that in the dark, is it? Much ye want to know, Mickey Costigan. Faix, colleens have thoughts an’ ways of their own that are unbeknownst to you or me.

‘ But be that as it may, the moment she felt the lips touched hers she let go a clout at the cheek iv the ghost ‘But, faix, her hand wint clane through the empty darkness widout touchin’ anything good or bad, an’ the ghost was gone out iv the place on the minnit Judy med a wild rush afther him, but she only kem straight on a big lock iv straw that was lyin’ across the bam fiure, an’ that wasn’t there whin she kem in, an’ fell over it as soft as a feather bed.

‘There was a flash iv white light in the bam, an’ thin it was dark agin. The colleen got herself up off the straw as best she could and made her way to the dure of the barn an’ from that to the house.

‘There was a roar iv laughin’ in the big room whin they saw the face iv the colleen, an’ they kep’ shoutin’ at her from this corner an’ from that—“Arrah, Judy asthore, did ye see any wan ye loved betther nor yerself? ” “Was he a good hand at the winnowin’, me girl? ” “Whin is it to be, Judy?” “Next Sherraft, I’m thinkin’; an’ mind ye ax me to the weddin’.”

‘But she had no eyes for anywan but Bryan Mulligan, who was takin’ it fair an’ aisy sittin’ beside purty Molly Flannigan near the middle iv the room.

“What did ye see, Judy? ” sez Molly Flannigan, wid the best iv them; “ax her you, Bryan. Mebbe she’d tell ye if she won’t tell us.”

“How dare ye do it? ” sez Judy, turnin’ sharp round on poor Bryan, who looked up at her as innocent as a two-year-old child.

“Dare what? ” sez Molly Flannigan. “Tell us about it, Judy? ”

‘Poor Judy Cassidy got red in the face as the gills iv a turkey cock at the question, an’ small blame to her.

“How dare he folly me out to the barn? ” she sez in a whisper, at long last. But all the company was in wan word that he hadn’t stirred a fut from where he was sittin’ beside Molly Flannigan.

‘Mebbe Judy belaved thim in that same, an’ mebbe agin she didn’t; but anyways she changed her tune iv a suddint “‘Sure ’twas only foolin’ ye I was all the time,” she sez, as bowld as brass. “ I saw no wan only meself in the barn, an’ even that I couldn’t see bekase iv the dark, an’ faix, I’m not sorry to be let alone to finish me winnowin’, for min wor decayvours ever an’ always, that couldn’t tell the truth be accident, an’ a colleen is better off widout thim. Do ye hear that now, Bryan Mulligan? ”

‘That turned the laugh on Bryan Mulligan; but still the boy looked well plazed wid himself all the time.

“Thry yer fortin’ agin, Judy,” sez Molly Flannigan,” thry it wid the ball iv worsted this time, an’ mebbe ye’d have betther luck. I know yi brought wan wid ye a purpose.”

“An’ if I did itsil,” sez Judy, “it wasn’t for meself I brought it Sure the boys want their chance as well as the girls. There’s Patsey O’Rourke there that’s grate at catchin’ apples and duckin’ for tripenny bits, but sure the poor omadaun never had a sweetheart be all accounts, an’ it’s time for him to be on the look-out, so it is. It’s for him an’ nobody else that I brought the ball iv worsted wid me.”

‘ Wid that the naybours all cried out together it was well done, an’ nothin’ would plaze thim but Patsey the Omadaun should thry his fortin.

‘ So Judy gey, him the ball iv thread an’ towld him to go an’ throw it in the owld lime-kiln be the edge iv the meadow field at the ind iv the boreen.

“Sure I’ve no knowledge iv the pishogue,” sez Patsey, as polite as ye plaze, for the boy was civil spoken to the colleens. “Maybe you’d come along wid me yerself, Miss Cassidy, an’ show me the right way iv it? ”

‘Judy, the rogue, let on at first that she was goin’ wid him.

‘But Bryan Mulligan sed agin it, an’ all the naybours wor the same way iv tbinkin’.

“The pishogue wouldn’t work,” sez Bryan Mulligan, “if there was another colleen to the fore.”

’” Mebbe he’d be mistakin’ yerself for his sweet- heart, Judy,” sez Molly Flannigan. “Sure that wouldn’t do at all at all, an’ the hatred ye’ve tuck agin min all iv a suddint”

“Indade I don’t want to make or meddle wid the boy, Molly Flannigan. I’m not so hard set as that I’d thry to stale other bodies’ sweethearts as all wan as some that I know. Patsey will manage the job be himself, I’ll go bail, right enough. Sure all you’ve got to do, Patsey, is to throw the ball over yer right showlder into the lime-kiln, houldin’ on to the other ind iv it. Thin ye begin to wind it up agin on a bit iv blessed palm that I’ve here for ye to kape the owld boy out iv the business, until ye feel some wan pullin’ at the other ind iv the worsted.”

“Who howlds me bottom iv yarn? ’ sez ye thin.

““I do,’ sez she An’ thin if ye’re to be marrid at all the colleen that’s to marry ye will show herself if she was to be a thousand miles away from the place at the same time.”

‘Wid that she tuck Patsey be the showlders an’ pushed him out iv the dure to thry his fortin. The dure closed behind him an’ shut in the laughin’ an’ the talkin’ iv the company, an’ there the boy was out be himself in the quiet moonlight.

Bedad the moonlight was extra strong in honour iv the night that was in it ’Twas like white sunshine mixed up wid cowld instead iv hate, an’ it covered the ground where it fell like a snow shower, an’ the shadows med black picturs iv the trees.

‘Patsey knew the owld lime-kiln well, standin’ be itself on the breast iv the hill, wid a grate hawthorn growing fominst it He had a stout courage iv his own at all times, but his heart bate quick an’ hard, an’ a quare feelin’ that was half dread an’ half hope woke up in him as he faced down the boreen, grippin’ the ball Iv worsted tight in his right hand, and the stick iv blessed palm in his left ‘He stood for a minnit beside the hawthorn, between two minds whether he’d thry the pishogue or not Thin he let fly the ball iv worsted over his right showlder into the lime-kiln. The thread wint wid the ball as it flew till it fell clane an’ diver in the bottom of the kiln. Thin Patsey began windin’ it slowly back on the stick iv holy palm. At first it kem back to him as aisy as it wint an’ a quare lonesome sadness kem over him wid the thought that he must live an’ die an owld bachelor. Mebbe, too, there was wan colleen more in his mind at the time than another, but if there was he didd’t rightly know it himself.

‘All iv a suddint his heart gev a grate jump an’ stood still, for there was a twitch on the worsted like the twitch on his fishin’ line whin a trout would rise to his fly on the river. He stopped windin’ on the minnit, an’ the twitch kem agin a little stronger than before.

“Who howlds me ball iv yarn? ” sez Patsey; an’ in the lonesome silence iv the moonlight the sound iv his own voice frightened him. There was no answer, but a low laugh like the laugh iv a colleen that id be well-plazed wid herself.

‘Patsey’s heart whispered who owned that low soft laugh, an’he began windin’the worsted like mad. It kem wid him aisy enough; but ever an’ agin there was a little twitch to the thread that kep’ his heart batin’.

‘At last his impatience got the betther iv him.

‘“Show yerself,” he cried agin, “whoever ye are, show yerself”

‘An’ thin an’ there, if you’ll belave me, between two branches iv the hawthorn, as plain as I see ye this minnit, Master Watty, he saw the face iv Biddy Maguire fominst him in the moonlight. The face was white in the white moonshine—white as a ghost—but she smiled as he looked at her, an’ there was a light in her bright eyes that warmed his heart. The face wint from his eyes as suddint as it kem, an’ there was only the empty moonlight in its place.

‘For wan minnit the boy stood stock still like a stone statue wid the wonder iv it Thin he come to himself agin, an’ searched the place high up an’ low down, whisperin’ her name all the time, an’ his heart batin’ faster than iver. But naythur light nor sight, nor tale nor tidings, iv the colleen could he find.

‘He was in no humour afther that, I promise ye, to listen to the questions an’ the laughin’ an’ the jokin’ iv the naybours beyant at Foxey Regan’s. So he med the best iv his way across the quiet fields back to his own place to think over what he saw, an’ the manin’ iv it. The quare new thoughts that wor cornin’ an’ goin’ in his heart kep’ him awake far into the night, an’ whin he slept at long last he dramed iv Biddy Maguire.’

CHAPTER VIII

HOW PATSEY MADE TRUE LOVE RUN SMOOTH

‘The womin is always on for makin’ mischief, even the best iv thim,’ said Peter Rattigan.

‘What are ye talkin’ about now?’ grunted Darby Fathy.

‘I’m talkin’ about Biddy Maguire, if ye want to know.’

‘An’ who may Biddy Maguire be whin she’s at home?’

Peter regarded him with contemptuous amazement. Begad, Darby Fathy, you’re as ignorant as a kish iv brogues, so ye are. Haven’t I tired me tongue tellin’ ye that? ’

‘Never mind him, Peter,’ I interrupted eagerly, ‘I know.’ For, indeed, Patsey the Oma-daun, and the region he dwelt in, and the people he met, were real to me as Robinson Crusoe and Man Friday and the desert island. Reality itself was not nearly so reaL ‘Never mind Darby,’ I cried,‘I know all about it Biddy Maguire was Patsey the Omadaun’s sweetheart’

Peter patted me on the head approvingly as I sat close beside him on the tailors’ board.

‘ If ye didn’t knock it Master Watty, ye staggered it, emock,’ he said. “She wasn’t his sweetheart all out at that time at any rate. It takes two for that kind of work, as you’ll lam time enough, I’ll go bail I’m not sayin’ what Biddy herself thought about the business, for a colleen’s saycrets belong to her own heart an’ no wan has any call to interfere wid thim.

’But as I was tellin’ ye, whativer raison she had in it, Biddy tuck it on herself at that time to be very civil intirely to Bryan Mulligan. She had always the pleasant word in her mouth an’ the kind look in her eye for the boy, an’ she’d walk a bit iv the way wid him cornin’ an’ goin’ to Mass an’ the like. Till at last she was so grate wid him that the naybours began talkin’ about it, and pityin’ poor Judy Cassidy, an’ she havin’ been called in church wid Bryan three times before .that ‘I’m not sayin’ but Biddy Maguire was to blame in the business for Judy Cassidy was a comrade girl iv her own, an’ she an’ her wor always the best iv friends. But troth, I’m thinkin’ at the same time she had no harm in it, only to taze an’ tormint poor Patsey be lettin’ on to be sweet on the other boy. But be that as it may, ye cannot light fire in jest or aimist without danger iv some wan gettin’ burnt, if it wor only a moth in the candle. It might be only a joke for Biddy Maguire, but troth it was no joke for poor Bryan Mulligan, who lost his sleep an’ his food on the head iv it, an’ grew as thin an’ as white as a ghost, until he could stand it no longer.

‘ Wan fine Sunday momin’ Patsey was within in the house mendin’ a fishin’ rod, for that was a devarshin he was most parshial to, an’ sorra trout in the river was safe from him, whin who should come in on the top of him but Bryan Mulligan, pantin’ as if he had been running a long way.

‘He sat himself down without spakin’, an’ watched the other for a long time tryin’ a fly that would decave the wisest trout that iver swam.

“Patsey,” sez Bryan at last, “will you answer me wan thing? ”

“Aye, or two things,” sez Patsey.

“Are ye courtin’ Biddy Maguire? ” sez Bryan.

“Ah, thin, what put that nonsinse into yer head? ” sez Patsey; “an’ what’s it to ye if I wor itself?”

‘“Can’t ye give me a straight answer to a straight question? ” sez Bryan.

“Thin I’m not,” sez Patsey, “if ye want to know, naythur her nor any other colleen; an’ what would ye do if I was? ”

“I’d lave her to ye,” sez Bryan, “an’ I’d lave the country into the bargain sooner than I’d try to come betune ye an’ the girl iv yer heart, for ye wor always a good frind to me, Patsey.”

“An’ who gave ye Biddy Maguire to take or to lave? ” sez Patsey, in a bit iv a timper. “ Haven’t ye a girl iv yer own, Judy Cassidy, an’ as fine a colleen as there is in the parish; an’ isn’t wan at a time enough for ye? ”

“Sure, Judy Cassidy is nothin’ in the world to me now,” sez Bryan.

“Since whin? ” sez Patsey.

“Since iver so long,” sez Bryan. “Sure there’s only wan girl worth lookin’ at, an’ her name is Biddy Maguire,” sez he.

“Ah, thin, is it there ye are? ” sez Patsey; “an’ that’s a quare story ye have to tell me. An’ would ye brake the heart iv the poor colleen that’s fond iv ye for as little as ye desarve it, an’ shame her before the naybours? ”

“It’s me own heart that’s brakin’,” sez Bryan, “for purty Biddy Maguire.”

“An’ sorra mend ye if it is Itself,” sez Patsey. “Faix, I’m thinkin’ the divil has a howlt on ye still, Bryan, whin ivery thing is said an’ done, or ye wouldn’t think iv goin’ back iv yer word to a colleen that trusted ye.”

“I tried me best over it,” sez Bryan. “If you wor to talk from this to the day afther to-morrow you couldn’t make me feel maner than I do mysel. I’m not sayin’ a word agin Judy Cassidy—I know as well as ye can tell me that I’m tratin’ her badly; but it would trate her worse, mebbe, to marry her, an’ me heart set on another colleen all the time.”

“An’ what do ye want me to do about it? ” sez Patsey. “Faix, the divil is in this job worse nor the last wan, I’m thinkin’.”

“I was hopin’, mebbe, you might spake a good word for me to Biddy Maguire,” sez Bryan.

“Is it me? ” sez Patsey; “an’ what good would that do? Sure, I hardly know the girl meself to spake to.”

“She has a great grah for ye,” sez Bryan. “I can tell ye that much, an’ she’s iver an’ always drawin’ down yer name to me, an’ praisin’ ye, an’ yer word would go a long way with her.”

‘“Why don’t ye spake for yerself?” sez Patsey. “Not that I’m advising ye that way.”

“She niver gives me the chance,” sez Biyan. “She’s always civil an’ smilin’, specially whin you are to the fore; but if I spake wan word about love-makin’, it’s to laugh at me she does.”

“She does right,” sez Patsey.

“Mebbe she does,” sez poor Bryan, “an’ mebbe I desarve no better; but it’s hard on me all the same. Sure, I’m not meself at all for the last few months. I’m gone to a shadow wid the dint iv the frettin’, an’ I’m that thin ye could shoot straws through me.”

‘Well, me dears, the long an’ the short iv it was that Patsey promised to help him through. “ Mind ye,” sez he, “it goes agin me conscience,” sez he, “to do a bad turn to poor Judy Cassidy.”

‘Whin Patsey tuck a thing in hands he wasn’t the wan to go to sleep over it Two days afther that he was on the look-out, whin Biddy Maguire went by in the freshness iv the momin’ to her milkin’, wid the pail under her arm, an’ it half full iv sweet posies.

‘“The top iv the momin^to ye,” Patsey calls out from the porch iv his cottage, where he was standin’ in his shirt-sleeves, as fine a boy as you’d ax to lay eyes on.

‘At the sound iv his voice Biddy stopped with a smile on her rosy lips an’ in her blue eyes, an she purtier an’ fresher than the fresh posies in her milk pail.

“I’d like a word wid ye if it was plazin’ to ye,” sez Patsey. “I have something particular to say to ye.”

‘Faix, her cheeks wor as red as her lips at the word, an’ there was a light in her blue eyes that id coax the birdies from the bushes.

“An’ why not an’ welkim? ” sez she, blushin’ an’ smilin’. “Sure, I’m in no hurry.”

“If you’d meet me whin the milkin’ is over it would be more convaynient,” sez Patsey, “for the cows, the craturs, are in a hurry, I’ll go bail, if you’re not, an’ ’twould be a sin an’ a shame to keep thim waitin’. What I’ve to say to ye may take some time in the sayin’ of it Could ye come down to the clump of hazel trees beyant the clover field at twelve o’clock? Ye know the spot iv owld, for it was there I found ye cryin’ over Foxey Regan that time long ago. The place is lonesome, an’ we’ll have it all to ourselves at that hour iv the day.”

“I’ll come,” sez she, “an’ welkin), to hear yer great saycret, whativer it may be.”

“It’s a thing I want to ax ye to do for me,” sez Patsey the Omadaun.

“‘Mebbe I’d do it an’ mebbe I wouldn’t,” sez she, wid a toss iv her purty head, for she med sure an’ sartin that she guessed what he’d be askin’ iv her, an’ it was in noways displazin’ to her.

‘She was sittin’ on the mossy bank under the hazel trees, nate and purty, in her best bib an’ tucker, wid the sun peepin’ down at her through the cracks in the green roof, whin she heard Patsey’s step crossin’ over the fince from his own field.

‘Her heart beat quick an’ hard, an’ the colour kem red to her cheek, but she kep’ on pickin’ the poor weeney primroses an’ the violets that wor speckled over the green bank fominst her, an’ pullin’ the purty little cratureens to pieces, an’ niver let on to hear the boy cornin’ till he was standin’ close up by her in the shade iv the trees.

“Oh, it’s you, is it? ” sez she, lookin’ up at him in great surprise.

“Yis, it’s me,” sez Patsey. “Didn’t I tell ye I was cornin’? ” And he sat himself down fair an’ aisy on another bank fominst her.

‘There was room for two on the bank she was sittin’ on iv they squeezed a trifle, but I always towld ye Patsey was an omadaun.

‘Bedad he was hard set to begin his story whin he got the chance, an’ he sat there for a good little while waitin’ to spake, an’ she sat waitin’ to listen, an’ the little birdies in the trees above, that wor in no ways backwards in their own love-makin’, God bless thim, wor laughin’ out loud at the pair iv thim.

“Miss Maguire,” sez Patsey, in the long run.

‘“Well, Mr. O’Rourke,” sez Biddy.

“I’m wishful to spake to ye,” sez he.

“An’ who’s hinderin’ ye? ” sez she.

“It’s a thing I want ye to do to plaze me,” sez he.

“‘Troth it’s the quare thing I wouldn’t do to plaze ye,” sez she, stalin’ a quick look at him from under her eyelashes.

“‘It’s a matter iv marriage,” sez Patsey; “but faix, I’m half afraid to tell it to ye.”

‘“I won’t bite ye in any case,” sez she, half blushin’ an’ half laughin’, for she med sure—an’ no wonder—that she could guess what was cornin’.

“There’s a boy that’s very fond iv ye,” sez he.

‘« Now do ye tell me that? ” sez she.

“Troth an’ I do,” sez he, “an’ his heart is set on ye intirely,” sez he.

“Troth, an’ I pity the cratur if that’s the way wid him,”, sez she.

‘“Ye’d niver guess the name that’s on him,” sez he.

“Sure if I wouldn’t ye might tell me,” sez she.

“Thin his’name is Bryan Mulligan,” sez he quite innocent “What! ” She let a cry out iv her, an’ jumped from the bank she was on, as if there wor a needle stickin’ in it ‘Poor Patsey looked at her as iv she had two heads on her; for the anger in her eyes frightened the poor boy, an’ he put his elbows up to guard his ears, as he used in the owld times at school whin the schoolmaster would come at him.

“Who did ye say wanted to marry me? ” sez she, in a voice that was betune laughin’ and cryin’.

“‘Bryan Mulligan,” sez he, “an’ who did ye think it was? ”

‘“Not you, anyways,” die sez quick and sudden, without thinkin’ iv herself, and got as red as a coal of fire afther she sed it “Indade I’d no thought iv the like,” sez me poor innocent Patsey, “sure I wouldn’t presume to it”

“Troth, it id be small use for ye iv ye had,” she answered him back.

“Sure I know that,” sez he, “an’ I’d be a fool if I didn’t. Troth, you are a dale too good for me or the likes iv me.”

‘She looked at him sharp to see iv he meant what he sed, an’ the makeness iv the boy began to draw the anger out iv her heart “But Bryan Mulligan’s heart is set on ye,” sez Patsey.

“He’s a fine laughey boy,” sez Biddy, “an’ a dacint father and mother’s son ”—givin’ a sly look under her eyes to see how he tuck her praisin’ another boy.

“He’s all that,” sez Patsey.

“An’ he has a nice place iv his own,” sez she.

“He has so,” sez Patsey.

“A girl might do worse for herself,” sez she.

“She might very aisy,” sez he.

‘Thin Biddy tried another way wid him.

“‘If I’m worth havin’ I’m worth askin’,” sez she, “an’ Bryan Mulligan has a tongue in his head as well as another, instead iv sendin’ you to do the courtin’ for him.”

‘“He was afraid an’ ashamed iv himself,” sez Patsey.

“‘An’ you wom’t,” sez Biddy, “an’ you to come courtin’ a girl for another man.”

“I was, thin,” sez Patsey, “iv ye knew but all.”

“Thin why did ye come? ” sez die.

“For a raison I had iv me own,” sez he.

“An’ what raison might that be,” sez she; “to want to marry me to Bryan Mulligan? ”

“Troth an’ I don’t,” sez he.

“Don’t what? ” sez she.

“Don’t that,” sez he.

“An’ what’s that, if ye plaze? ”

“I don’t want ye to marry Bryan Mulligan,” sez he; “quite the contrairy.”

‘ Begad, that tuck another rise out iv her wid the surprise iv it But there was no anger in her that time, an’ she looked at him as tinder as a cow at her calf.

‘“What do ye mane be the contrairy?” sez she, wid a voice as soft as a pigeon in the trees on a sunshiny day. “If ye don’t want me to marry Bryan, who do ye want me to marry? ”

“No wan at all,” sez Patsey.

“Thin, why did ye come to me wid this rigmarole of marrying at all at all? ”

“I’ll tell ye that,” sez he.

“Do, thin,” sez she.

“Bryan is wishful to marry ye,” sez he; “but that’s no raison why you should want to marry him,” sez he. “It’s often that two people aren’t of a mind in a matther iv the kind.”

‘“Thrue for ye,” sez Biddy, wid a sigh that she tried to rowl up in a laugh in the ind so that it wouldn’t be noticed.

‘“There’s Judy Cassidy to be considered in the business, an’ she a comrade girl iv yer own.”

“That’s so,” sez she, “an’ I’m afraid I trated her badly.”

“‘What did ye do on her?” sez Patsey. “Sure, it’s no fault iv yours if a boy takes a fancy to ye or that he doesn’t. You didn’t make yerself the way you are, an’ it’s not aisy to blame the boy naither. But I’ve a plan in me head that I’m thinkin’ will bring things right agin if you’ll only give me a lift wid it.”

‘“Troth, an’ I will so,” sez she, “wid a heart an’ a half, sence it isn’t to marry Bryan Mulligan ye want me to do.”

‘She sat herself down again on the bank, an’ this time Patsey had the gumption to sit beside her, an’ for a good hour or more they discoorsed over the plan, whisperin’ all the time, though there was no wan but the birdies in the trees or the flowers in the grass to hear what they wor sayin’ to aich other.

‘“’Twill do grand,” sez Biddy, in the long run, clappin’ her hands, “an’ I’ll do me part iv it iv you do yours.”

‘Bryan Mulligan was up in Patsey’s cottage bright an’ airly next mornin’ for the news iv their goings on.

“I’ve the best iv good news for ye,” sez me bowld Patsey. “Your girl is ready and willin’ to marry ye.”

Ye don’t tell me so I ” sez Bryan, gettin’ red an’ white agin at the thought iv it “But I do tell ye so,” sez Patsey, “an’ I swear it But there’s trouble in the road all the same.”

“I was fearin’ so,” sez Bryan.

“Owld Rory Maguire is as headstrong as a mad bull.”

“Sure all the world knows that”

“An’ his daughter is frightened out iv her life at him.”

“An’ no wondher at all.”

Troth, he’d half murder ye if ye kem lookin’ afther her.”

I wouldn’t doubt him in the laste.”

“But there’s a way ye might manage. If ye wor to come be night wid yer outside car an’ the smart mare under it, an’ I’d come the same night wid a ladder, an’ yer own girl would come to ye through the window, an’ off wid the pair iv ye hot foot to Ballinamuck, fifteen miles away, where I’ll have the priest ready to make man an’ wife iv ye, an’ let owld Rory do his best afterwards.”

“But will the girl come to me? ” sez Bryan.

“I had it from Biddy Maguire’s own lips that she would, hoppin’,” sez Patsey; “isn’t that good enough? ”

‘It was a bright moonlight night about three o’clock in the momin’ that the pair iv thim crep’ up the road to Rory Maguire’s, Bryan ladin’ the mare under the car wid a strip iv an owld sack wrapped round iveiy hoof iv her to deaden the noise iv her goin’, an’ Patsey carryin’ the ladder over his showlder.

‘’Twas a three-storey house, no less, wid a porch in front iv it. Biddy’s room was in the top storey iv the house over the porch. Patsey threw up a small share iv gravel agin the window in the first goin’ off to make sure she was there, for bedad both the boys wor in mortial terror that they’d bring owld Rory down on thim.

‘But at the first tap iv the gravel on the glass they heard the window open above their heads, an’ Biddy Maguire’s voice dropped down to thim in a whisper, “Who’s there? ”

“It’s me, alanna, yer own thrue sweetheart, come for ye,” sez Bryan in a whisper back to her.

“Oh, asthore macree mavoumeen,” sez Biddy, the rogue iv the world, “sure I’m cornin’ down to me own sweetheart.”

‘There was a quare shake in her voice as she sed it, an’ Bryan couldn’t tell rightly if it was laughin’ or cryin’ she was; but it was more like laughin’ anyways.

‘With that Patsey plants the ladder agin the wall in a great hurry intirely. “Run up wid ye,” he sez, “an’ help the girl down.”

‘But before Bryan could stir hand or foot, they saw a girl’s leg cornin’ out backwards iv the window, an’ a purty leg it was, an’ no mistake. Another leg followed that again, an’ down wid her down the ladder as lively as a lamplighter.

‘Bryan was mastered at the minnit wid a great shyness that tuck the words an’ the motion from him, an’ it was Patsey that discoorsed the girl as she stood there fominst thim wrapped from top to toe in a big blue cloth cloak, wid the hood drawn over her head, an’ her shakin’ like a lafe in a light wind.

“The car is there to the fore,” he sez, “an’ yer own sweetheart is ready an’ willin’, an’ there’s nothin’ we need be waitin’ for.”

‘For he heard a quare sound, an’ ye couldn’t tell was it laughin’ or cryin’, in the room she kem from, an’ any minnit owld Rory himself might be out on the top iv thim.

‘So Patsey hoisted her up to the back cushion iv the car, an’ up jumps Bryan beside her. Then wid wan lep Patsey was up himself on the other side, an’ he loosened the reins and tipped the mare up behind, an’ off wid thim helter-skelter through the moonlight like the ghost iv a car, an’ the mare gallopin’ bare fut with rag stockin’s on her.

‘It was a lovely night all out, an’ not a breeze stirrin’, barrin’ the breeze they med thimselves wid their goin’. The hedges slid by on the roadside, an’ the trees raced back to thim, an’ the long ridges iv the potatoes in the fields kep’ whirlin’ for themselves as they passed, an’ all the time the big round moon kep’ lookin’ down on thim, now from wan side iv the road an’ now from the other, an’ whitenin’ the ground under her like a snow-storm ‘Patsey was laughin’ quietly to himself as he druv on wan side iv the car. But on the other side me poor Bryan an’ the colleen beside him seemed mighty onaisy. She sat up straight an’ stiff wid the hood iv her cloak drawn so tight over her head that he could only see the tip iv her nose. Whin he med as iv he would slip his arm round her she drew back tremblin’.

‘ A quare feelin’ kem over the boy. He felt shy an’ frightened, an’ tried to let on to himself that it was the dint iv joy an’ happiness that was troublin’ him. But he was hardset to persuade himself it was that that ailed him. Sure it’s often the way wid the world that whin a body gets what he’s lookin’ for he’s no ways too well plazed wid his bargain. Bryan was always the laste taste afraid iv Biddy Maguire in the best iv times, for she had a way iv laughin’ at him wid her eyes instead iv her mouth, an’ if ye belave me he was niver more afraid iv her than at the minnit she was sittin’ beside him straight an’ stiff, an’ the two iv thim drivin’ away like mad through the country to be married out iv a face.

‘Ivery now an’ agin the thought iv his sweet Judy Cassidy would come in his mind in spite iv himself, an’ the mane way he trated her.

‘He saw her as plain as if she was there before his two eyes, an’ the kind welkim an’ the coaxin’ look she had for him ever an’ always.

“An’ faix,” sez he to himself, in spite iv himself, “if it wor Judy I had beside me this minnit an’ we goin’ to be married, ‘tisn’t sittin’ up stiff an’ straight we’d be like two prongs iv a harrow, an’ ne’er a word out iv aither iv us. But, faix, I know where my arm would be, an’ where her head id be, an’ I’d be at no loss for things to say to her that id plaze iher, an’ a kiss be the way of no harm at every full stop in our talk, I’ll go bail.”

‘ But all the time the car was goin’ faster than his thoughts, for Patsey didn’t spare the mare, I can tell ye, an’ Bryan felt the road mighty short for a man on his way to be married.

‘The moon wint down on thim afther a while. But Patsey druv on as fast as iver through the dark. Thin be slow degrees a soft, grey light flowed down out iv the sky an’ up out iv the ground, cornin’ at the same time from iverywhere an’ nowhere at all.

‘Thin there kem a growin’ light in the east, as if somebody was kindlin’ a big bonfire, an’ the little birdies in the hedges an’ bushes began flutterin’ and singin’ for the bare life, till all iv a suddint the sun showed the crown iv his bald, red head over the ground, an’ the mornin’ was back in the world agin.

‘ A cool wind kem wid the mornin’, an’ blew in their faces, an’ me poor Bryan had a chill an’ a shiver on him, for he’d come out in his Sunday best for the weddin’. He stole an odd look now an’ agin at the colleen beside him, but she looked stifler an’ straighter than iver in the daylight, an’ the hood drawn down over her face. Sorra a sadder-lookin’ man iver druv to his own weddin’ than the same Bryan.

‘ Well, me dears, at long last, though it seemed short enough to poor Bryan, they kem to the Chapel of Ballinamuck, standin’ be itself about a mile outside the town, an’ its nate little steeple pointin’ straight up to the sky.

‘ Felix, poor Bryan’s courage very nearly failed him all out as they drew up to the open door iv the chapel. But, seein’ there was no way out iv it, he put his best fut foremost an’ helped the colleen down off the car. He felt her hand cowld an’ tremblin’ in his as he tuck it, an’ the hood iv her cloak was drawn down over her face all the time, an’ in wid thim into the chapel.

‘Bryan got a start for his life whin he saw their own Father Pat Kinsella standin’ ready fominst the altar, the same that had called him three times wid Judy Cassidy at home in their own place.

‘But, faix, that was nothin’ to the start he got whin he turned to look for the bride.

‘She had thrun aside the cloak wid the hood at long last, an’ Patsey was howldin’ it, an’ here she stud in the soft light that kem in from the high windy, half-cryin’ an’ half-smilin’, wid a colour in her cheek an’ a light in her eyes—his own darlin’ Judy Cassidy, as bright an’ purty as a rose in the summer momin’.

‘His heart lepped wid joy whin he saw her, an’ all his owld love flowed back an’ nearly smothered him.

‘“Ah, thin, Judy,” he cried, “asthore macree, is it yourself that was in it all the time, an’ can ye forgive me? ”

‘“Troth, forgiveness is for me to ax, Bryan alannah, an’ the trick that I put on ye.”

“Faix, ’twas the lucky trick for me, anyways,” sez Bryan.

An’ you’re glad to see it’s meself that’s in it afther all, instead of purty—”

‘ But Patsey, seein’ that the priest was lookin puzzled at their quare goin’s on, stopped the name iv Biddy Maguire wid a wink, an’ it half-ways out iv her mouth.

“‘Howld yer whist,” he sez all iv a suddin’, winkin’ hard at the pair, “an’ don’t keep his riverence waitin’ wid yer foolish talk, an’ him cornin’ the long road widout his breakfast to marry ye bekase I towld him ye wor shy to be marrid before the naybours. Are ye ready, Bryan Mulligan, for the priest is puttin’ the ribbon round his neck?”

“I am, so,” sez Bryan.

‘Bedad, Father Kinsella was a handy man at the work, an’ in two two’s he had thim marrid an’ done for, an’ a happier couple niver stud fominst a priest on the altar.

‘ So Bryan ped the priest, an’ thanked him for his trouble, an’ thin off wid thim hot foot back agin the way they kem. But, faix, it was a different journey for Bryan goin’ an’ cornin’. For now his arm was round his girl’s waist, an’ her head on his showlder. Troth, as he heard thim on the other side iv the car kissin’ and coosherin’ like two birds on the wan twig, me poor Patsey felt lonesome.’

CHAPTER IX

HOW PATSEY MADE THE BIG BEAR COMMIT SUICIDE

A circus was coming to town, and the juvenile population of Kilclougher was, of course, in a wild whirl of excitement. Even the visit of the conjuror was commonplace in comparison with this momentous occurrence. The great news was first announced to the boys and girls of Kilclougher by the breaking out of flaming placards on every dead wall and hoarding of the little town. There the most impossible feats were depicted to our credulous eyes in realistic colours that insisted on belief. There were human pyramids at least a hundred yards high; there were horses in every attitude of untamable frenzy and of educated docility. Even to this day I remember vividly the picture of the tame horse that sat up on his hind legs and played the violin, and of that other wild, unconquerable horse, with tail and mane flying loose, that leaped the twelve-bar gate with a lovely lady in a particularly short frock, perched like a butterfly on his head. Our excitement fed on those pictures till it grew to fever heat A week later the circus itself came streeling in long procession through the village. What a wonderful procession it was to be sure—straight out of the Arabian Nights. The lovely lady in the carriage of solid gold driving six ponies that might be mistaken for dogs but for their flowing tails and manes; the wild Indians on their war horses and in their war paint, the same that had galloped so often over the pages of Cooper and Mayne Reid; the clowns in their motley, sitting jauntily, their heads to the tails of their miraculous horses painted in piebald patches of brown and white; the large elephants stepping ponderously like moving houses; and last and greatest, most wonderful, most fascinating, because most fearsome of all the huge closely-locked and barred caravans—the elephants trailed behind them—filled chock full of lions and tigers and all the ferocious beasts that loomed and leaped through the terrifying nightmares of childish imagination.

For anyone who remembers the first circus of his boyhood the description of my feelings on the eventful night of the first performance is not needed; for all others it is meaningless.

The performance was a scene of unimaginable, almost undistinguishable delight. There was exhilaration in the lateness of the hour, long past ordinary bed-time; there was intoxication in the wild flare of the gas, in the mingled odour of the sawdust and the orange peel; the rough plank seat draped with a thin crimson stuff that in no degree modified the hardness of the plank, was the throne of the happiest prince in the world.

The beautiful ladies in short white skirts (not over clean), who stood on one pointed toe on horses with backs as broad and flat as a table, were to my young eyes visions out of fairyland.

My admiration was divided between that witty fellow the clown, with very loose pantaloons and paint-bedaubed face, who puzzled the ringmaster with his wonderful conundrums, and the stately ringmaster, blue-coated and brass-buttoned, who retorted with the crack of a whip as long as a fishing-rod. On the night of my first circus, amid the glare of the gaslight and the thunder of applause, I tasted an ecstatic delight which the mere grown-up can never hope to enjoy.

But the crowning glory of the circus was the menagerie. There were no lions or tigers except on the flaming painted posters outside the show, but these small discrepancies did not trouble the unexacting juvenile mind. For there was a bear— a big, shaggy, terrible bear.

In the sad wisdom of after days I am inclined to the belief that the poor brute was an old performing bear whose dancing days were over, and had been bought up cheap by the circus, and was as harmless as a cow. But no such profane thought damped my tremulous enthusiasm as I stood open-eyed and open-mouthed before the great bars of iron (or painted wood) that guarded the den of the ferocious monster, and listened to the eloquent panegyric of the showman.

‘This, ladies and gentlemen, is the great brown grizzly bear, the Ursus magnanimus of the inaccessible forests of Patagonia. He has defeated and devoured the most intractable lions and tigers in single combat in the fastnesses of his native wilds. Three intrepid hunters were slain in the perilous attempt to secure this monarch of the forests alive and uninjured for the unique exhibition which I have now the honour of presenting to your attention.’

Certain bald patches which extreme old age had wrought in the shaggy hide of the Ursus magnanimus were pointed out as the healed scars of the terrible wounds received in the combat with lions and tigers in the fastnesses of his native wilds of Patagonia.

Above all a rumour, which somehow got abroad, that in a neighbouring town he had broken through the iron bars of his cage and devoured a child, gave the finishing touch of fearsome horror to our interest in the monster.

The excitement of the circus made me, I must confess, forget for the time my friends on the tailors’ board. It was not till the circus had been two days gone out of the town that I found myself once more on the crooked stairs that led to my favourite haunt As I paused out of breath at the door I heard the even flow of Peter’s voice, broken by the clitter-clatter of a scissors, and I knew that a story was in progress.

‘ Circus bear, inagh! ’ cried Peter, in a tone of dignified remonstrance. ‘May God give you sinse, Darby Fathy. Sure the circus bear wasn’t no more than a puppy dog to the wan that I’m tellin’ ye about’

I crept in softly and took my accustomed place cross-legged on the tailors’ board beside the storyteller.

‘Well, as I was tellin’ ye,’ Peter’s voice went on in the smooth, slow drawl of its melodious brogue, ‘the bear brack loose from the menagerie an’ med his way into the fastnesses of the forest up beyant Rory Maguire’s place an’ ravaged the whole country-side.’

‘What’s to ravage, Pether, if ye plaze?’ inquired impertinent Mickey Costigan.

‘If ye think I’ve nothin’ to do, Mickey Costigan, at this time iv me life but to tache ye the book lamin’ you should have mastered at school, faix you’re grately mistaken. The grate bear, as I was sayin’, ravaged the whole country-side and committed numerous depredations on the naybours. What’s a depredations I suppose is the next thing you’ll be askin’ me. But, faix, ye may find out for yerself or lave it so. I wouldn’t be loosin’ me time wid the likes iv ye.

‘Troth, thin, there was many a wan wint out wid guns an’ swords an’ th’ like to ketch the same bear, but they wor kilt an’ ate, an’ their white bones all scattered in the woods to prove it’s the truth I’m tellin’.

‘But though he ate min or womin or childer for that matther, as fast as he’d look up at thim, there was nothin’ the big bear was so fond iv as honey.’

I may mention that this fact in natural history had been impressed upon us at the circus.

‘An’ faix, it’s a quare thing too that the grate big murderin’ brute, the young childer, an’ the little weeshie bees, the cratereens, should all be iv the wan way iv thinkin’.

‘Well, Wanst upon a time me bowld bear kem down out iv the woods an’ med an attack on poor Patsey’s beehives. He tumbled over the first that kem before him wid wan poke iv his snout an’ began aitin’ the honey out iv a face. But, faix, I’m thinkin’ the bees had their say in that business, an’ they spiled the taste iv his brekfast on him, for they didn’t lave an inch iv him widout a sting in it So back he went wid himsel helter-skelter to the woods, an’ a cloud iv thim buzzin’ about his head as thick as black smoke out iv a chimney whin the turf id be wet in the fire below.

‘Come to the story, is it? Am’nt I cornin’ to it as quick as I can? If I’m not let tell it me own way I’ll lave yerself to tell it, Mickey Costigan. Ye don’t know it to tell? Well, if ye don’t, ye might have respect for thim that does.

‘Well, wan fine summer’s momin’, if that’ll plaze ye, Patsey was within in his cottage, aitin’ his brekfast that he had cooked for himself, for he was cook, slut an’ butler in the cottage an’ no wan to help him, whin he heard a grate scream that was fit to take the roof off the house.

‘He ran to the dure in the minnit, an’ what he saw tuck the sight iv his eyes very near.

‘There was Biddy Maguire standin’ stock still in the middle iv the road like a beautiful white statue, the life tuck clane away from her be the fright she was in, an’ her milkin’ pail rowlin’ before her an’ the flowers spilt out iv it Down behind her, gruntin’ an’ growlin’ an’ jumpin’ an’ joultin’ an’ rowlin’, kem the big bear out iv the woods, wid the red mouth iv him wide open to ate her up at wan mouthful.

‘Patsey gave but wan look at the pair iv thim. He caught up a thick lump iv a blackthorn stick that be the luck iv the world was standin’ handy inside the dure, an’ off wid him like a wild deer up the road an’ him in his bare head and his shirt sleeves. There wasn’t a boy in the parish or the next parish to it that could run like me brave Patsey whin he was put to it, an’ he did his best that time, an’ no mistake. But wid all his best he was only just in time to come between the colleen an’ the baste.

‘The sorra word aither iv them sed whin they met, only to make straight for wan another. Pat-sey up wid his blackthorn stick, an’ he hit the bear wan clip on the point iv the snout that near staggered him wid the pain iv it. But he kem at Patsey agin wid a clout iv his paw that would have rowled him over like a ninepin if he caught it Poor Patsey as he ducked felt the whish iv the blow go by’his ear, like the rush iv a high wind in the winter time. The bear struck agin wid the left paw, but Patsey was out from under that again, and came down on the back of his poll wid another lick iv his blackthorn.

‘Sorra finer fight iver ye saw than they had there on the road for thimselves, an’ the poor colleen watchin’ thim, half dead wid the fright iv it Patsey kep’ duckin’, and dodgin’, and whirlin’ his stick as if it was in a faction fight he was an’ half a dozen boys down on him, an’ ivery whack he gev the bear you’d hear the thud iv it a mile off the same as if it wor a drum he was batin’. But sorra heed the bear ped to him or his blackthorn, no more than flies buzzin’, only to let a grunt out iv him at ivery polthogue he got an’ to come at Patsey again worse nor before. Between hoppin’ an’ jumpin’ Patsey kep’ clear iv his paws, that wint like the sails iv a windmill, an’ the bear could nayther hit him nor howld him.

‘“Run for yer life to the cottage,” Patsey shouted back to the colleen, an’ his stick goin’ all the time; but sorra step she stirred, only watchin’ the fight.

‘ Then Patsey began edgin’ back the road he kem, an’ the bear after him all the time, till he kem to the place where the girl was standin’. The bear was that wild that he didn’t see where he was goin’, an’ didn’t he put his paw into the milkin’ pail on the road all as wan as if it wor a Wellington boot he had in it, an’ sorra much too big it was for him aither. Then wid the rowl iv the pail he stumbled, an’ very near fell on the boreen.

‘That med him mad all out, and the ignorant baste went at the poor bucket the same as if it wor a Christian, an’ he kicked it an’ battered it to that extent that he didn’t lave a stave iv it together, an’ the hoops rowlin’ this way an’ that on the boreen as if childer wor playin’.

‘Patsey tuck the lucky chance that he got an’ he caught the colleen clane up in his arms, an’ ran wid her as fast as his legs could carry him down the boreen towards the cottage.

‘But as fast as he wint the bear wint faster, an’ whin Patsey heard him agin gruntin’ an’ pantin’ behind him he put the girl down on her own feet, an’ faced back wid his blackthorn to meet the inemy.

“Run, acushla,” he cried, “run for yer life to the cottage and bolt the dure after ye.”

‘Be the luck iv the world the first lick he met the bear was over the eye, an’ the baste let a cry out iv him like a Christian an’ put up his paw to rub away the pain. The next minnit he med a lep at Patsey so smart an’ suddint that he caught him. Me poor boy felt the ribs in his body crackin’ wid the hug iv the brute, an’ the colleen let a cry out iv her like a hurt child, an’ kem runnin’ up wid a lump iv a stone in her fist, an’ thumpin’ the bear on the back iv the poll wid it But, faix, she might as well be thumpin’ the side iv a house for any effect it tuck on the bear. The man an’ the baste struggled an’ strove on the roadside, an’ sorra puff was left in me poor Patsey to say a prayer wid. He was the best wrastler in the parish, but sure he was no more than an infant in arms to the bear, an’ be the same token’ ’twas a rough nurse he had in it ‘But just as the breath was clane gone from the poor boy all out the bear tripped over the low wall of the boreen an’ over wid him head over heels into the field below. He loosened his holt as he fell, an’ Patsey was flung ten yards off. The boy was on his feet on the minnit, an’ back wid him on the boreen staggerin’ an’ pantin’. It was the colleen that took the ladership thin.

“Lane on me, agra,” she sed, an’ she took him under the arm an’ helped him as you’d help a wake owld man along the road. His breath an’ his strength kem back to him as they wint, for it was only squeezed an’ stunned he was, an’ no bones broken.

‘But, troth, they wom’t done’wid the bear yit. In a minnit afther they heard him rumblin’ down the boreen afther thim agin.

‘The colleen had the gumption in the middle iv her fright to pick the blackthorn up off the ground whin Patsey dropped it Now she faced round wid the stick in her hand to fight the bear as a hin will face a fox whin her chickens are in danger.

‘But Patsey tuck the stick from her an’ put her behind him. “Lave go,” he sed, “lave go. I’m me own man agin; lave me to dale wid the owld vagabond iv the world, an’ do you run for the cottage an’ bolt the dure after ye.”

‘She did as she was bid that time. She med for the cottage, sure enough, that wasn’t twinty yards off, but she stood wid the dure wide open an’ her hand ready on the bolt ‘The bear kem at Patsey wid this mouth open, an’ Patsey let drive at the red tongue in him that was hangin’ out like a dog’s. Bedad that was the worst clout he got yit. The blood spouted from where the knobs iv the stick tore him, an’ for wan minnit the pain tuck all the spunk out iv him. That gev Patsey his chance. He med wan dart for the cottage dure, an’ as he wint through it, Biddy slammed the stout oak in the bear’s face, an’ shot the iron bolt home.

‘Me own belief is the stupid baste thought the ground swallowed them; for he looked round him like a fool for a minnit:or so, not knowin’ what happened. Thin he trotted off to the garden where the hives wor. The first hive he kem to he pushed over wid his snout, an’ began aitin’ the honey out iv a face. But the bees had a word to say to that business also. Faix, they spilt his brekfast, for him anyway, for as sweet as it was, wid a sting forivery hair iv his head. In less than five minnits he was gallopin’ back agin to the woods faster nor he kem, wid the honey stratum’ in yallow strings from his jaws, an’ the bees afther him like a pack iv hounds afther a fox.

‘Biddy Maguire had no sooner clapped the dure to afther Patsey than a strong wakeness tuck her. The colour wint from her cheeks an’ the light out iv her eyes an’ the power from her body. She staggered back three steps into the middle iv the cottage an’ she would have come down flop on the flure if Patsey hadn’t caught her in his arms. The foolish boy thought at the first goin’ off it was dead she was, ah’ the life was very near frightened out iv him, she looked so pale an’ purty lyin’ there in his arms as quite as a sleepin’ child.

‘“Wake up, wake up, acushla machree,” he cried, “sure there’s no danger but what’s past an’ gone intirely.”

‘A sudden temptation kem over him, an’ he stooped an’ kissed her on the mouth.

‘ ‘Twas the first colleen he iver kissed, if you’ll belave it—an’ in troth ’tis hard to belave the like— an’ a quare shiver iv shyness an’ joy mixed together ran through him from the crown iv his head to the sole iv his fut ‘Be the soft, warm touch iv her lips he knew she wasn’t dead. Bedad, you’d think the boy’s kiss called back her sowl from wheresomever it was at the time, for at that minnit a colour began to warm in her cheek as I’ve seen the sky airly on a summer’s momin’, an’ her blue eyes opened soft an’ suddint, and looked straight into his.

‘“Where ami?” sez she, in a voice as soft as a sleepy pigeon.

‘Thin she saw where she was in the boy’s arms, an’ the red kem quick enough to her face, I warrant ye. Ye niver in yer life saw two young craturs more frightened of aich other, an’ aich iv thim redder nor what the other was.

“I’m afraid I must be goin’,” sez she. “Me father will be expectin’ me.” And wid that Patsey the Omadaun loosed his hoult on her at wanst “An’ I’m much obliged to ye,” shewinton,spakin’ very quick, wid a quare trimble in her voice, “for savin’ me life; an’ the longest day I live I’ll niver forget it to ye.”

‘Wid that, before he could say aye, yis, or no, she was gone through the dure like a ray iv sunshine, lavin’ him standin’ there like a fool, widout a word to say for himself.

‘ Thin all iv a suddint a grate spite tuck him agin the bear that tried to hurt his purty colleen, an’ it was little but be med off afther him at wanst into the woods. But be soon saw that would be small use to him, an’ he widout a gun or a swoord or any other waipin iv war. Still, through it all his mind was set on gettin’ quits wid the bear for the bad work he did that moruin’, even if he wor to lose his life over it. As he sat there scratchin’ his curly head, an’ his thoughts goin’ this way an’ that like a flock iv geese on a cross roads, first wan thing an’ thin another kem into his mind. The bear got mixed up in his head wid Foxey Regan. From that he began to think iv the quare cut iv Foxey on All Hallows Eve, whin he missed his snap at the apple at wan ind iv.the twirlin’ stick an’ the bag iv flour at the other ind met him a pqlthouge on the side iv the head an’ burst on him.

‘All iv a suddint from th^t foolish wanderin’ that was betune sleepin’.an’wakin’. there jumped out at him a plan for makin’ a bit free wid the bear.

‘ Faix, he didn’t cool on it aither. It was a quare lot iv things he got ready to take wid him on his bear huntin’. First he tuck a box iv honey, thick an’ pure, wid the wax as clane as the honey, an’ put it in a basket for convaynience sake. “It’s a sin an’ a shame to waste it on a brute iv the \ kind,” he grumbled, as he packed it Thin he tuck a half-hundred weight wid a ring to it, an’ a good bit iv a stout hemp rope an’ sorra wan thing else to help him wid the troublesome job he had in hand.

Sure, the divil a quarer thing than that same bear huntin’ was iver seen since Adam was a whistlin’ gossoon.

‘Whin Patsey got on the inside edge iv the wood he kep’ his eyes open for the tree he was in quest iv, an’ it wasn’t long till he kem to it, a great big owld anchint oak wid the strong branches stickin’ straight out iv it, widout the laste sign iv a bend or curl up nor down.

‘The first thing Patsey did was to waste a good share iv the honey that he brought wid him, scatterin’ some iv it on the ground an’ rubbin’ more iv it on the trunk iv the tree. Thin he tied the rope to the half-hundred weight, an’ the basket iv honey to that again, an’ wid the other ind iv the rope betune his teeth up the tree wid him like a monkey.

‘ He was climbin’ ever an’ ever till he kem to a big straight branch about thirty fut or more from the ground, an’ another runnin’ the same way a dozen feet over that again. Thin he tuck to haulin’ up his load be manes iv the rope. Whin he got it settled on the butt iv the branch beside him he spread the honeycomb out along it, layin’ it thicker an’ thicker as he wint, an’ finishin’ off wid a fine big lump at the ind.

‘Thin he tuck the rope in his teeth an’ up wid him to the branch overhead. He twisted the rope twice round the branch in a manner that the weight hung down about three fut from the wan below.

“I think that ought to do now,” sez Patsey to himself, as he slid down in a hurry out iv the tree, for he thought he heard the bear rummagin’ in the woods for the brekfast that he missed in purty Biddy Maguire.

‘Just outside the wood he stopped to watch, an’, be some quare chance, while he was watchin’ the bear, purty Biddy Maguire was watchin’ himself.

‘Whin he stood there for a good little while the girl’s curiosity, an’ mebbe something else to help it, got the betther iv her, an’ she kem up to him as timid as a bird to a trap.

“What is it, Patsey? ’’ she whispered, an’ the whisper med the heart jump in him.

‘“Whist, acushla,” he answered back, “look there ”; an’ she very near let a cry out iv her, for she saw the bear come blunderin’ slowly out iv the woods like a big black shadow through the trees.

“Run,” she whispered; “run, he’ll be afther us agin.” But Patsey bid her kape herself quite an’ aisy, that there was no fear of her that time. Sure enough the bear ped no heed in the world to aither iv thim. He’d got the scint iv the fresh honey, an’ that’s what the thief of the world was afther at the time. So he kem along slow an’ sure to the big oak tree, pickin’ up the bits iv honeycomb that Patsey had scattered for him. Thin he licked the trunk iv the tree wid the big red tongue iv him, an’ he licked his chops afther-wards. Whin he had licked the trunk iv the tree clane, up wid him hand over fist into the branches. He stopped at the same big branch that Patsey had stopped at, an’ they could see him go out along it, balancin’ himself like a rope walker, an’ aitin’ the honey as he wint ‘He gev no heed at all to the half-hundred weight that was hangin’ in front iv him, but just shoved it out iv his way wid his snout to give himself clear room to pass. But the half-hundred weight kem back smart from the swing an’ gev him a rap wid the sharp edge iv it behind the ear. If it didn’t hurt him much itself it vexed him, an’ he gev the weight a harder shove the next time to put it out iv the way for good an’ alL That time it swung straight back an’ tuck him on the point hr the nose that was sore already wid the blackthorn. Bedad that riz the divil in the big bear, an’ he reared straight up on his hind legs to fight it. But the harder he hit it the harder it hit him back, an’ faix the iron hurt the bear more than the bear hurt the iron.

‘ But the mad divil wouldn’t give in to it, an’ Patsey an’ Biddy nearly lost their lives wid laughin’ to see him squarin’ out wid the tight hand an’ the left at the half-hundred weight that didn’t care a thraneen for his best, an’ ivery blow he gave fit to kill a cow.

‘At last he gev wan mighty smack that sint the weight flyin’ round in a circle, an’ while he was waitin’ an’ balancin’ to meet it agin, whin it kem at him in the front, it tuck him a polthogue in the back iv the knob and swep’ him from the branch like a ripe acorn. He kem down wid a smack an’ a hop like a handball, an’ thin lay quite still.

‘Patsey and Biddy kem runnin’ up together, an’ they found him stone dead. “I’ll have the skin iv him to make ye a winter jacket,” sez Patsey.

‘Biddy stooped down an’ patted the rough head iv the baste. “Poor fellow,” she sed in a low whisper, widout lookin’ at the boy beside her. “Sure, afther all, ’twas his great fault he was too fond iv me, an’ I’m not the wan to blem him for that. He lost his life over wantin’ to hug me.”

“There are others thaf d do the same thing,” thought poor Patsey to himself; but the omadaun hadn’t the gumption to say it out loud whin he got the chance.’

CHAPTER X

HOW PATSEY MET THE GRAND LADY

‘She was the grand lady intirely, an’ Patsey knew that,’ said Peter Rattigan.

‘Ah! thin, where did she come from, anyways?’ asked Darby Fathy, bewildered by the sudden irruption of a grand lady into the life and adventures of Patsey the Omadaun.

‘Sure, isn’t that what I’m tellin’ ye if ye’d only have the manners to listen?’ said Peter.

‘ She was a mighty grand lady all out She kem from the Aist Injas or Wist Injas, an’ I couldn’t tell ye which if ye wor to put me to me oath. Her husband was the Governor iv the place, an’ a dale elder nor what she was, an’ they’d only wan child, a purty little slip of a girl, about five years owld, an’ as like her mother as two pays.

‘I was niver in those places meself, so it stands to raison I don’t know a great dale about thim, so if ye ax me no questions I’ll tell ye no lies. But the pair lived happy enough, be all accounts, till the husband died iv the hate or the cowld, or whativer else it was, in the place, an’ the grand lady kem back wid her daughter to the castle in Ireland, where they used to live before they wor ordered away to furrin parts.

‘She was afraid, mebbe, if she kep’ the daughter there too long she might turn black on her, like most iv the people that’s born out there; an’ that id be a pity, too, for the little colleen had a skin like the wild roses in the hedges in the airly summer time.

‘The castle that I’m tellin’ ye of was the finest place in that country. It was about three miles out from the village, in the opposite direction intirely from Rory Maguire’s, built on the slope iv a smooth green hill, wid the woods at the back iv it, an’ in front iv it a deep, dumb river that slid down fast an’ smooth to the waterfall, an’ wint over wid a roar an’ tumble iv white foam.

‘’Twas there the young widow used to love to sit be the smooth river’s banks, near half a mile above the falls, undher the shade iv a big crooked growin’ whitethorn, while the still warm air was sweet wid the May bloom, an’ the river ran by iver an’ always silent an’ smooth like the river iv a drame.

‘Sometimes she’d have a book in her hand, but she’d be so long betune the turnin’ iv the laves that the weeny flowers from the branches above would have time to fall an’ gather on the pages.

‘What did she be thinkin’ iv all those times? Faix, it’s hard for the likes iv me to tell ye that. What does young women be thinkin’ iv most times whin they are alone be thimselves—but love. Be all accounts there was a small share iv love in the first match that she med. The man was owld enough to be her father, an’ ’twas her friends overruled her into marryin’ him, an’ she only a young slip iv a colleen at the time. But she was always the good wife to him, so I’m towld, an’ put up wid his quare ways an’ contrariness till the hour iv his death.

‘Now her heart was set intirely on the little daughter, an’ she niver stirred a step widout her. Whin the mother would be sittin’ on the sate undher the hawthorn, the little colleen would be runnin’ loose in the field forninst her, flying from one flower to another, like a white butterfly, God bless her. an’ makin’ cowslip balls an’ daisv chains for herself, an’ cornin’ back ivery minnit wid this purty thing or that to her mother, who had always a kind word an’ a kiss for the sweet little colleen.

‘The widow had the thought to put up a fince iv young trees be the river’s brim to keep the child from the water, an’ bad luck to the good-for-nothing workman that med that same fince, whomsoiver he was, an’ I’ll tell ye why aftherwards.

‘But first ye must know that the mother an’ daughter hadn’t the river all to thimselves on those fine momin’s when the sun would be playin’ hide and go sake among the clouds that wor scattered over the sky, like a flock iv sheep on a blue field, an’ jthe big trout would be leppin’ and ploppin’ afther the May fly in the deep dark waters under the shadow iv the trees.

‘ I always towld ye before this that Patsey was a great hand at the trout fishin’. But in the owld days it’s little time he gev himself for the sport, as fond as he was iv it.

‘But a quare feelin’ was growin’ on the boy iv late that put him from work or company. The spring plantin’ was done, an’ the crops down wid him, an’ he had his time to himself very much, but he showed no taste at all for dancin’ or devarshin at wake or pathem. Nothin’ would plaze him but to go meanderin’ in the woods or down be the river, wid no wan along wid him only himself, an’ the thought iv purty Biddy Maguire for company.

‘Mebbe he might have coaxed the colleen herself to come wid him for a stroll iv he axed her, but he was afeard. Iver since the day he kissed her unbeknownst, within his own cottage, he couldn’t look the colleen in the face without blushin’ and tremblin’. He used to be free an’ aisy wid her, as wan boy to another, wid a frindly word an’ a laugh whin they met Now, though he’d be hungry an’ thirsty for a word or a smile, yet he’d run an’ hide himself if he saw her cornin’ a mile off, an’ thin he’d curse himself the rest iv the day for his foolery.

‘Biddy Maguire herself wasn’t plazed at his goin’s on, I can tell ye, for girls are quick to notice that kind iv thing.

‘But, be that as it may, poor Patsey would sit for the length iv a day be the river, under the trees, not knowin’ himself what he wanted or what he didn’t want, an’ the warmth of the sun an’ die whisperin’ iv the trees an’ the twitterin’ iv the small birdies nestin’ in the green laves were a joy an’ a tormint to him at the same time.

‘ Bedad the poor trout ped for it all. There was a spot down very near a quarter iv a mile nearer the falls than the stand which the grand lady had for herself on the opposite bank, where the trout were as thick as blackberries on a bramble in the autumn time. The fishes used to come hoppin’ an’ jumpin’ up the waterfall, which was known far an’ wide as the “salmon lep.” On a sunshiny day you’d see thim flashin’ an’ dartin’ an’ shootin’as thick as sparks from a smith’s fire, so quick that your eyes id be dazzled in your head tryin’ to count thim.

‘Those that med their way good up the falls tuck this quiet place to rest thimselves afther their work, niver thinkin’ at all of Patsey that was there before thim wid his fishin’ rod. There was niver a more deluderin’ fisherman before or sence than the same Patsey. Sure there wasn’t a trout or a salmon that could be up to him. Iv wan of Patsey’s flies was sailin’ soft an’ smooth down the top iv the water wid a shiver through it from the tremblin’ iv the tip iv the rod, sorra fish iv thim all would look the same side iv the river that the rale fly would be.

‘ Mind ye, too, the grand lady would often take notice iv Patsey fishin’ no more nor a dark shadow by the bank away down the strame, an’ she would watch the rod swing as he cast the fly, an’ often- time she would see the white gleam ivthesplashin trout as he landed it, an’ she’d wonder to herself what manner iv man it was that kem there so constant ‘Twas a terrible chance that brought thira together in the long run. On a bright May momin’, whin the owld world looks its best an’ you’d think it was just med out iv the new, Patsey was fishin’ down the river in the owld spot where the trout wor as thick and as lively as midges, an’ as ready to bite. Very near a quarter iv a mile away the grand lady was readin’, or makin’ belave to read, an’ the little colleen was playin’ for herself in the meadow be the river.

‘’Twas a big butterfly, wid all the colours of the rainbow, that did the whole damage. When die little colleen seen it fly up out iv the red clover she let a cry iv joy out iv her, and ran to chase it It stooped down agin to a small shrub iv a plant wid a swate white blossom, an’ I don’t rightly know the name iv it There it sat, shiverin’ an quiverin’ in the sunshine, an’ the little colleen cornin’ up behind, wid her straw hat ready, med sure an’ sartin She had it caught that time. Not a bit iv it Just as the rim iv the straw hat was halfways down over it, me bowld butterfly floated off wid itself as smooth an’ swift as a withered lafe in a high wind, an’ the little colleen hot fut afther it again. The butterfly med straight for the river this time; the little colleen followed hard an’ fast, not lookin’ which way she was goin’.

‘Musha, bad luck agin to the man that med the flnce be the river’s brim. It splinthered like dry twigs whin the child struck it, an’ down wid her, slidderin’ an’ slidin’ like a boat from the bank, into the deep, fast wather.

‘She gev wan sharp cry whin she felt the cowld touch iv the wather on her body. The mother answered wid another louder cry, an’ lepped from her sate, sendin’ her book flyin’, an’ kem racin’ down to the bank. But for as fast as she ran the river ran faster. The colleen floated for a while like a pulled flower that you’d fling on the top iv the wather, an’ the river raced wid her faster an’ faster on to the terrible falls, an’ the mother raced afther her along the bank screamin’ like a banshee as she ran.

‘But Patsey down the river heard the first cry the girleen gev. He flung the rod from him on the minnit, an’ a big fish hooked be the same token, an’ he tore the heavy brogues off his feet an’ the coat from his back, an’ in wid him head fominst into the wather wid a push from the bank that shot him out like a dartin’ trout into the fast currint He could see the child now close to the far bank an’ she racin’ down to him like a patch iv white foam on the swift, smooth black wather.

‘ Could he cross an’ ketch her before she got to the falls? Bedad he could try anyways, he sed to himself, though his own life was on the tosser. He turned round an’ faced slantways across the river towards the falls, that roared an’ howled at him to come on. As his shoulder caught the rush of the currint it was like the prow iv a boat, an’ the angry wather splashed over his head. But he shook it off wid a rise an’ a dash, an’ druv himself on wid the quick push iv his hands an’ feet that niver ceased nor tired.

“Twas the closest shave that iver ye saw in all yer born days, an’ the mother watchin’ like a frozen statue be the river’s bank wid all the life that was left in her shinin’ in her eyes.

‘ She cried out agin, a cry that would soften the heart of the divil out iv hell, as she saw her innocent white blossom fly past in front iv the strong swimmer straight on for the falls. But wid wan mighty lep, like a leppin’ salmon, Patsey caught the tail iv the little colleen’s white dress as she passed him, an’ drew her back from the death she was racin’ to.

‘Howldin’ her tight wid wan hand an’ swim-min’ his best wid the other, Patsey med for the bank, but for ivery fut he drew himself across the river the currint dragged him two down to the falls.

‘Just where the smooth black wather began to show thin streaks iv white a big tree hung out from the bank, washin’ the tips iv its laves in the rush iv the strame. Faix, ’twas often that Patsey cursed the same tree whin a fish would go dartin’ across the river under the thick thatch of branches an’ tangle an’ brake his line on him. But he didn’t curse it this time anyways, as the currint carried him within reach, an’ he caught a tough branch that stretched so close to the wather’s edge that it very near cut the back iv the head off him as he slid undher it ‘The tough branch creaked an’ cracked from the drag iv the rushin’ wather. But before it could give wid him, Patsey caught another branch stronger an’ nearer to the bank an’ drew himself closer in. He was still in deep wather, an’ the currint med a streak iv white froth whin it met his body, as iv it wor a rock that was in it But the mother laned out from the bank, an’ Patsey laned in from the river an’ pushed the little colleen up towards her. She could just touch the hem iv the dress wid her fingers at the first goin’ off, but she gathered it in, little be little, till she had a good fistful iv it, an’ she drew the child from Patsey’s hand to the bank.

‘ You’d think it was a mad woman was in it iv ye saw the capers iv her whin she got her little colleen safe to land. The mother’s heart is the same in the poor woman an’ the grand lady, an’ I do be often thinkin’ that the bastes iv the field an’ the birdies in the bushes have much the same nature in thim, too, iv anything would be troublin’ their young wans.

‘The grand lady caught’ the wet little colleen to her breast, an’ cooshered her tight in her arms, an’ fondled her an’ kissed her all over as if it was goin’ to ate her she was.

‘ There was no hade at all ped to poor Patsey whin he drew himself ashore by the branches safe an’ sound, an’ stood on the green bank watchin’ thim both, an’ the water drippin’ from him in rivers, no less.

‘At last the grand lady turned an’ saw him, an’ kem runnin’ to him wid wan hand stretched out an’ the other still clasped tight round her little colleen.

‘ She fairly tuck the light out iv his eyes as he saw her cornin’. She was a dale taller than most womin, an’ her hair, which had shook loose as she ran, reached below her knees, an’ was black, an’ shiny, an’ wavy as the wather iv the river. Her face was still pale wid the fright she was put to, though a colour began to warm in her cheeks. But it was the eyes iv her that frightened the boy —big an’ black, wid a great light shinin’ out iv thim.

‘ She caught up his wet hand when she kem to him, and kissed it three times over. “Thanks, thanks,” she cried; “oh! how can I iver thank ye for savin’ me darlint child. ’Twas God sint ye to us.”

“Sure, ’twas nothin’ at all, ma’am,” sez Patsey, stammerin’ and blushin’; “whin I saw the little colleen cornin’ racin’ down the river, an’ you on the bank scramin’—savin’ yer prisince—scramin’ like a banshee, what else had I to do but to do what I did? An’, sure, ’twas no more nor a fine swim for me on a May mornin’, whin there’s no cruelty in the wather at all at all.”

“‘You are very brave an’ very modest,” sez she, lookin’ at him straight in the eyes till the poor boy blushed as red as a live coal; “but ye sha’n’t chate me out iv gratitude,” sez the grand lady.

‘“Gratitude, inagh,” sez Patsey; “faix, that’s a big word for a small matther, yer ladyship.”

“Do ye call me child’s life a small matther? ” she answered him back quick; “an’ that’s what I owe ye,” sez she.

‘Patsey said nothin’ to that, an’ she began walkin’ back along the river, carryin’ her child all the time.

‘Patsey saw be the look in her eyes that he was to go wid her, an’ he wint “If ye’ll be sed be me, yer ladyship, ye’ll put the colleen down on the ground an’ let her run. Sorra wan taste iv harm the duckin’ will do her if she doesn’t get cowld out iv it aftherwards. Sure, if it was carryin’ she wanted, I’m fitter to carry her nor what you are. But her own two legs are her best manes iv travellin’.”

“Can ye walk, darlint? ’’ whispered the mother to the wet little colleen in her arms.

“An’ run, mammy,” sez the small voice back to her, “an- I’d just love it as well”

‘Thin the mother set the colleen down on the grass beside her an’ tuck her be the hand, an’ the innocent little cratereen gev the other hand to Patsey as friendly as ye plaze, an’ the three iv thim tuck to racin’ in a row along the banks iv the river wid the child in the middle.

‘ Me poor Patsey felt a quare shyness that tuck all the spunk out iv him as he ran with the grand lady so close.

‘Afther a little while they turned up a side path that led from the river to the big house, mebbe a quarter iv a mile away. It was a mighty big house intirely, all built iv white stone, standin’, sharp an’ clear agin the blue sky, as if it had been cut out iv the wan solid block, wid pillars in the front iv it as thick as a man’s body, an’ higher nor twinty men standin’ on their heads, wan on top iv the other.

‘Whin they kem on the gravel space in front iv the big hall dure Patsey let the little colleen’s hand drop from him, an’ drew back all of a sudden. “I must be goin’ now me own way,” he sed, “an’ it’s gettin’ late.”

‘But the grand lady sed agin that. “Come in,” sez she, “an’ the servants will get ye dry clothes. There are some inside belongin’ to-”

She stopped herself wid the red in her cheeks, for it was the name iv the grate lord, her husband, she was goin’ to draw down, an’ sure his clothes wouldn’t look at Patsey, seein’ that he was only a small little bit iv a man an’ Patsey was six fut in his wet stockin’s.

“Ye’ll get yer death iv cowld,” sez she, patchin’ her broken words together anyhow, “out iv the wettin’ ye had.”

“Is it me? ” sez Patsey, wid a laugh that was as good to hear as the song iv the throstle on a spring momin’. “Sure I’m more often wet nor dry whin I’m afther the fish. Me coat is on the other side iv the river, an’ me boots, an’ me rod an’ a fish stuck to that same whin I left it, but where he is now, goodness knows; so I must be off at wanst, thankin’ yer ladyship kindly all the same an’ hopin’ the little colleen will be none the worse for her dip.”

‘Before she could say yis, aye or no to that he med her a fine bow an’ away wid him down the avenue as fast as a colt in a paddock whin some-wan would be tryin’ to catch him.

‘Patsey med straight for the river an’ in wid him across it, slantin’ down wid the current to the place where his rod an’ coat an’ boots wor lyin’ together on the bank, an’ the grand lady, for as grate as was her hurry, watched till she saw him safe over.

‘’Twasn’t longafther that, mebbe the next day, an’ mebbe the day afther, whin Patsey was fishin’ on the other side iv the river, a soft voice sayin’ “Good momin’,” very near started the life out iv him.

‘It was the grand lady herself; she kem up so softly, an’ he busy stuck in a fine fish, that he niver heard her cornin’.

‘She was more beautiful than what she was before, dressed all in black that fitted her smooth an’ soft an’ glossy as the coat iv a thoroughbred filly, an’ not the laste taste iv colour anywhere, except wan red rose that was stuck in the twisted ropes iv her shiny black hair.

‘She had the little colleen be the hand, an’ there was a smile in her eyes that id warm the heart inside iv ye.

“‘Ah, thin, good mornin’, an’ God save ye kindly,” sez Patsey, pullin’ off his cap wid wan hand, but niver losin’ his howlt on the fish all the time.

“We’ve come to thank ye agin, Maggie an’ I. Ye ran away so fast ye gev us no time the other day.”

‘Poor Patsey didn’t know what to say to that, an’ he was glad iv the excuse that the fish he had on his hook gev a run across the river, an’ the line ran wid him like the swish iv a whip, an’ the top iv the rod bent down to the wather.

‘’Twas plain in a minnit that the grand lady was used to the game. Sorra word more she sed, but watched Patsey playin’ the fish beautiful up an’ down the river, tightenin’ here an’ aisin’ there till he had the life tired out iv the cratur, and he led him in fair an’ aisy as a dog id lade a blind man, right under the bank.

‘Thin without a word the grand lady picked up the landin’ net that was lyin’ handy an’ stooped softly down over the bank, an’ as nate as ye plaze she whipped a fine lump iv a salmon kickin’ an’ jumpin’ on the grass.

‘ The little colleen gev a cry iv joy at the sight iv him flashin’ in the sunshine like a sythe in the hands of a smart mower.

“I used to do that,” sez the grand lady, “in the Injas for me husband.” And she blushed agin at the mintion iv the word husband.

‘Patsey could do no less for manners sake than walk back wid her towards the big house wid the rod over his shoulders, an’ the salmon wid a gad through the gills streelin’ in the grass beside him.

‘She was so aisy spoken an’ simple in her talk that he forgot afther a while that it was a grand lady he had in it Sure Mrs. Moriarty, the widdy woman in the grocer’s shop round the comer, gives herself twice as many airs.

‘The little colleen kep’ flutterin’ and chirpin’ round thim like a bird as they walked till they kem to the place where she fell in, an’ the mother showed him the brache in the flnce.

‘So he promised that he’d come agin wid a hammer an’ nails an’ make the flnce good for her. Thin they had a bit iv a dispute together over the salmon. Patsey swore the fish was her own be rights, as she was the wan that caught it But she didn’t want to take it, an’ he didn’t want to keep it “Sure I can ketch wan for meself,” sez he, “on the way back, an’ the river swarmin’ wid thim.”

‘In the long runJie carried the fish for her up to the big house, an’ the grand lady herself showed him all over the place, an’ gev him cakes an’ fruit, an’ wine to drink. There wor more rooms in that house than there are cells in a beehive, an’ the picture an’ the statues an’ the silks an’ the satins an’ the goold an’ the silver that wor scattered care-less over the place like shells on the say shore took the light out iv the boy’s eyes. But he caught no more salmon that day, I’ll go bail.

‘They met oftentimes afther that, the three iv thim, an’ sometimes the mother an’ daughter would be watchin’ him fishin’ till he’d have a nice little lot iv trout caught for thim, an’ he’d make the basket as nate as iver ye saw out iv the green rushes to howld thim. But most times he’d be playin’ an’ gostherin’ wid the little colleen, for all his lifetime the boy was fond iv childher, an’ he’d make little boats out iv the flaggers be the brim that would go sailin’ down the river, dartin’ here an’ there like fishes as the wind tuck their sails; an’ other times he’d tell her owld aincient Irish stories about the fairy dances an’ changins’ an’ the leprechauns an’ the like; an’ the little colleen would listen as quiet as her own wax dolly that was on the ground beside her, an’ her big blue eyes as wide open, while the mother from her sate undher the hawthorn would watch the pair iv thim out, iv the comer iv her eye, an’ she lettin’ on to read.

‘Other times the grand lady would read out loud for Patsey the Omadaun out iv a poetry book she had, where the words flowed as smooth as the water in the river an’ sweet as the birds in the trees, an’ thin would come soft, tinder thoughts in me poor Patsey’s head as he listened to her, but sure ’twas iv Biddy Maguire he was thinkin’ all the time.

‘ Well, me dears, the days slid by in this way from May into June, an’ those three wor grater frinds than iver wid each day that passed.

‘What was in the grand lady’s mind I don’t know, an’ I’m not goin’ to ax naythur, for I can tell whin to mind me own business, not like other people, without interferin’ wid the like iv her, an’ it’s enough for me to tell ye the things that happened.

‘Afther a while the naybours began to notice -the comin’s an’ goin’s of Patsey an’ the grand lady up at the big house, an’ there was a great dale iv owld talk over it in the village below, but no wan liked to say a word to the boy himself about it only Foxey Regan, that hadn’t the dacincy to keep a quite tongue in his head.

‘He met Patsey wan evenin’ cbmin’ through the meadow land down to his own place from the river.

“Well, Patsey,” sez he, lettin’ a big laugh out iv him, “an’ whin is it to come off?”

“What is it? ” sez Patsey.

“‘The marriage!” sez Foxey Regan, wid a grin on his ugly face.

“What marriage? ’’ sez Patsey agin.

‘“Yourself an’ the grand lady” sez Foxey Regan; “sure all the world knows she’s In love wid ye.”

‘Patsey was a quiet boy most times. But at the word of Foxey Regan he got that red that you’d think the blood would burst through his cheeks, an’ a wicked light lit up in his blue eyes.

‘Sorra word he med answer good nor bad, but he stretched his hand out an’ tuck Foxey Regan be the collar an’ shook him as you’d shake an apple tree to shake the fruit off it He let go iv a suddint, an’ Foxey rowled over an’ over on the grass like a rabbit that id be shot, an’ lay where he landed afeard to stir.

‘But Patsey gev no more heed to him, but walked on straight home wid his head bent, thinkin’ iv a whole lot iv things.

‘The next mornin’ he was bright an’ airly at the river side; but for as airly as he was, the grand lady with the little colleen, an’ she as grand an’ as pleasant as iver, was there before him. But poor Patsey was ashamed to look her in the face, rememberin’ the words iv Foxey Regan the night before ‘Afther a cast or two he put by his rod, sayin’

’twas too sunshiny for the fishes, an’ began tellin’ fairy tales to the little colleen.

‘Be raison iv the great hate iv the sun they had to come up pretty close to where the grand lady herself sat in the shelter iv the trees. But she was radin’ her book, an’ takin’ no notice hr thim, an’ Patsey sat wid his back to her.

“Wanst upon a time,” he began wid his story, “there was a princess, an’ she was the grandest an’ most beautiful in the world, an’ the kindest along wid that, an’ she had lovely black, shiny hair hangin’ down to her feet very near.”

“You mane golden hair,” sez the little colleen. “The princesses always has golden hair in the storybooks.”

“This princess had black hair, anyways,” sez Patsey, “an’ she was the most beautiful iv thim all. Well, there was a shepherd boy in the story, just a rough, common boy as you’d meet any day iv the week, an’ he happened to save something the princess was mighty fond iv intirely.”

“‘I know,” sez the little colleen; “a golden apple that fell in the pond.”

‘“Aye, just so,” sez Patsey; “an’ indade ye might call it ‘the apple iv her eye.’ An’ small thanks it was for the boy to save it; sure, a big water-dog would have done as much. But the grand princess out iv her own good heart was too kind an’ thankful for the likes iv him.”

‘“I know,” sez the little colleen, “an’ she married the shepherd boy. It always inds like that in the story-books.”

‘Poor Patsey got very red in the face; but she was that bent on the story the child took no notice, an’ the mother wasn’t listenin’, seemingly.

“It didn’t ind that ways this time,” sez Patsey; “an’ how should it? Troth, the notion niver entered into the mind iv wan or the other iv thim. But the princess was so kind an’ good to the poor boy that ill-spoken naybours began whisperin’ their nonsinse, an’ the princess wasn’t angry, seein’ ‘twas no fault iv his. But she thought it right to say good-bye on the head iv it; an’, sure, the shepherd boy would be the last to blame her for it, knowiii’ ’twas right she did, though his heart was heavy at the partin’. But afther a while more the princess married a grand king that was good enough for her, very near, an’ that was a hard thing to find, an’ the shepherd boy married a shepherd girl like himself, an’ they both lived happy from that day out”

“Is that the ind iv the whole story? ” sez the little colleen, surprised that it inded up so short ‘“Yis, dearie,” sez Patsey very slowly; “that’s the ind iv the whole story.”

‘Just thin the grand lady put down her book and kem towards thim. There was the shinin’ iv tears in her black eyes, but no tears fell, an’ there was a pleasant smile on her face as she put out her white hand to Patsey, an’ he tuck it an’ held it “‘I’ve heard your story,” sez she, “an’ the shepherd boy was quite right But he was the best gentleman I iver knew, an’ too good for the princess. Good-bye, now,” she sez again; “it is time for us to be gettin’ back.”

‘Then Patsey fished no more that day, an’ whin he went a-fishin’ agin after a while it was always on the other side iv the river.’

CHAPTER XI

HOW PATSEY MET THE FINE GENTLEMAN

‘ Walter Burke won first prize in the mile race for boys under fifteen years at the Athletic Sports of Kilclougher.’

Even as I write the words there returns to me a faint reminiscent flavour of that tremendous triumph. I was stunned and dizzy when, with one supreme effort, with an agonising wrench of every muscle of my young body, I flung myself in front of my struggling competitors and fell exhausted across the tape on the track, with the applause of all my little world of Kilclougher thundering in my ears.

It was not till an hour later that I could settle down to calm, intense enjoyment of the triumph. Wellington after Waterloo, Caesar ‘that summer evening in his tent, that day he overcame the Nervii,’ was not more conscious of illimitable victory than little Watty Burke as he strutted over the grounds and complacently accepted congratulations.

I have had some moderate successes in life since then, but nothing to rival that first surpassing triumph.

I do not know how I have been tempted by boyish memories into this long digression, though, as will be seen, it is not wholly irrelevant It was a few days later that I went up the winding stairs to show my prize and make my boast to the tailor triumvirate. I was enthusiastically received. The prize, described in the programme as a handsome silver (plated) bowl ’— the ‘ plated ’ written very small—excited much admiration. Indeed, Darby Fathy, in his enthusiasm, went so far as to state that the porter tasted better out of it than out of the pewter itself, which, from such a connoisseur of porter, was high praise.

Peter Rattigan, after a deep draught, wiped the yellow froth from his lips with the tail of a frieze coat on which he was operating at the time, and launched incontinently into a story.

‘ Patsey ped no heed at all to their fut races an’ devarshons, but kep’ himself to himself all the time.’

I could almost see an impatient question form itself on the lips of Mickey Costigan at this abrupt introduction of foot races into the career of Patsey. But a defiant look from Peter silenced him. As for myself, needless to say, I was instantly absorbed by the fascination of the theme, and, with ears, eyes, and mouth open, drank in the story.

‘There niver was such goin’s on before nor sinse in the town an’ the county round it The grand lady gev the big field outside the river for the sports—Parkmore was the name it wint by— an’ they put up flags an’ stramers, an’ a thing they called “the grand stand,” for people to sit down on, an’ tints an’ the like wid lashins’ an’ lavins iv drink for thim that might chance to be dry. The grand lady was to give the prises, an’ faix she helped to pay for thim too, be all accounts.

‘Patsey was the only wan in the whole place that was out iv the business intirely. Sure the spunk was gone from him altogether for a while back, an’ whin he wasn’t busy at some job in the house or tendin’ the bees—he was mighty proud iv the bees an’ the way they trated the bear that time long ago—he’d be wanderin’ like a ludrahaun through the woods betune sleepin’ an’ wakin’, but still he kept always at the far side iv the river from the big house.

‘ He’d run like a redshank an’ hide himself, the omadaun, if he saw Biddy Maguire anywhere a mile away.

‘Biddy herself was changed at the same time. Mebbe she heard the talk that was goin’ on up an’ down about Patsey an’ the grand lady, or mebbe it preyed on her mind that the boy would run at the sight iv her. But be that as it may, afther a little while she wouldn’t look the same side iv the road he was on, just to show him that she wasn’t brakin’ her heart over the tratement he gev her. Then she, who was always the quietest girl in the parish, grew so lively iv a suddint that there was no standin’ her. There wasn’t a wake nor a fair nor a pathem but she was there, laughin’ an’ dancin’ wid the best, an’ all the bachelors iv the place wor more mad afther her than iver.

‘There was a first cousin stayin’ at the time wid the grand lady beyant at the big house, that kem to see her all the way from England. He was a fine young man to lobk at an’ the best runner in England be all accounts. The stoty was that ivery man that kem before him beyant in his own college, aither at racin’ or fightin’, he bet thim black an’ blue, an’ none could stand before him. There was talk among the naybours that he kem to coort the grand lady. But If I’m tobelave all I hear, the grand lady didn’t care a thraneen for him or his coortin’, which was a great wonder to himself, for he was always a favourite wid the ladies.

‘He wasn’t the man to give himself airs, for he was in no ways particular what he sed or did, or where he wint to, an’ he’d as soon turn into Foxey Regan’s public-house as to a king’s palace.

‘Afther a while he left the grand house an’ kem to stay wid Foxey, bringin’ his horse an’ trap along wid him. Mebbe the grand lady fell out wid him, an’ mebbe he heard some iv the stories that wor goin’, for he tuck a mortial hatred to poor Patsey, an’ often used to be boastin’, especially whin he had tuck a drop iv drink, that for two straws he’d brake ivery bone in “the clodhopper’s carcass.”

‘Bedad, the grudge he tuck agin Patsey wasn’t stronger than the likin’ he tuck to Biddy Maguire meetin’ her wan day at a dance. The foolish girl didn’t say agin him. But she had a smile an’ a pleasant word for him iver an’ always, an’ would go drivin’ wid him round the country in a high yallow trap he had, wid a fast steppin’ bay mare, an’ a little gossoon in green, spotted all over wid brass buttons, stuck up behind like a caterpillar on a withered cabbage lafe.

‘ You’d think mebbe that Roty Maguire would have his say in this business iv his daughter’s goin’s on, but sorra hair Rory cared who she tuck up wid so long as he’d the name iv the money.

‘Well, me dears, at long last the great day iv the races kem to hand, an’ all the world was gatherin’ into the town, an’ the fine gentleman from England was at the head an’ tail iv the whole business. The great thing intirely was the mile race ’—(this I felt was a delicate compliment to myself—Walter Burke—which I appreciated with a glow of triumph)—‘an’ afther that the boxin’ match, an’ the fine gentleman was sure an’ sartin’ of winnin’ both, for there was no wan to stand before him.

‘He was up bright an’ airly at Maguire’s the momin’ iv the races, wid his yallow trap an’ his high steppin’ horse an’ his little green gossoon iv a groom. An’ Biddy gev him his brekfast, lookin’ prettier than a pictur, in a white muslin dress wid -little moss rose buds sprinkled all over it “I’ll drive ye down, me dear, in me trap,” sez the fine gentleman, “an’ I’ll get ye the best place on the stand to see me winnin’,”—he was that sore iv himself.

‘ It was the divil sure enough that timpted than to drive past Patsey’s cottage that momin’, though it was a bit out iv their way to the race coorse.

‘It happened that Patsey was outside at the time attendin’ to the roses, white an’ red, that swarmed over the front iv the cottage.

‘He heard the noise iv the horses’ hoofs an’ wheels at a great pace cornin’ down the boreen, an’ looked round on a suddin’.

‘Whin he saw who was in it he got as red in the face as the reddest iv the roses, an’ would have bolted like a rabbit for his burrow if he’d time.

‘But the fine gentleman let an ugly laugh out iv him, an’ struck wid his whip at Patsey’s face as he wint by. ^

‘ Patsey up wid his arm only just in time to save his cheek from the thong. It curled round his arm like a snake, an’ his strong hand closed on it ‘Wid.a quick jerk he had the handle from the grip iv the fine gent He halved it into three- quarters across his knee as if it wor a rotten kippeen, an’ flung the bits out fominst him on the road, thin lepped out himself afther thim. The gent in the trap at the first start was goin’ to pull up. He jerked at the reins, an’ he let a curse out iv him that fierce and bitther that it frightened the heart in poor Biddy. But the minnit afther he thought better iv waitin’ for Patsey, so he loosened the reins agin an’ off wid him the fast steppin’ horse steppin’ faster than before, an’ Patsey could only see Biddy’s white face lookin’ back at him as they swep’ round the corner.

‘ He stood for a moment on the roadside, breathin’ quick from the anger that had howlt iv him.

‘Thin iv a suddint a thought tuck him, an’ off wid him hot fut down the road afther the trap.

‘There was a great crowd intirely gathered in Parkmore, all bent on enjoymint an’ divarshon,wid the sun shinin’ down on the place as if it wor ped be the job.

‘ Right up on the grand stand fominst the crowd in’ the winnin’ post was the grand lady, an’ a table in front iv her strewn all over wid vessels in silver an’ goold—the prizes for the races.’

(This was going one better than Kilclougher in which only white metal was distributed.)

‘ There was a band iv music playin’ away for the bare life in the coorse below, an’ the stir iv the music put life into the air that was very near dead from the dint iv the sunshine.

‘Well, the fine gent druv up to the entrance gate wid as good a dash as he was able, an’ he havin’ no whip; he handed Biddy Maguire down out iv her sate all the sem as if she wor a lady,iv the land, an’ the two iv thim walked across the ground together, an’ she lanin’ on his arm an’ all the naybours noddin’ an’ nudgin’ an’ whisperin’ to aich other.

‘Right for the grand stand they faced, the pair iv thim. Thin widout “Wid yer lave or by yer lave,” he walked her straight up to the middle iv the place an’ planted her down cheek be jowl wid the grand lady.

‘Well, me dears, if he thought to vex the grand lady be that, an’ I’m not sayin’ but he did, faix, he was out iv hie bargain.

“Good momin’, Albert,” she sez, wid a bow that only just shook the feather in her hat; an’ thin she looked at Biddy wid a smile, as much as to say,

“ I don’t know ye, me dear, to spake to; but you’re welkim all the same.”

‘ Wid that me poor Biddy got as red an’ hot as a coal iv fire. For she had a notion she was put in the place to vex the grand lady, and was not altogether sorry for the same at the first goin’ off.

‘For the woman was strong in Biddy Maguire, an’ she used to be sayin’ to herself, “If she tuck my boy from me I tuck hers, an’ that’s wan comfort” But whin she saw the cool look the grand lady had for the fine gent, an’ the kind look she had for herself, the anger that Biddy Maguire had in her heart died out iv it,, and sorrow an’ shame kem instead.

‘She stole a make little look at her out iv the comer iv her blue eyes, as much as to say, “ Don’t be hard on a poor colleen who didn’t know any betther.” Thin the grand lady smiled at her sweeter nor iver.

“You an’ me ought to be frinds, me dear,” sez she. “I’ve heard so much about ye, an’ nothin’ but praise, from a frind of us both.”

‘Some people can put more manin’ in the same words than others. Biddy knew on the minnit it was Patsey that used to be praisin’ her, an’ a thrimble Iv joy ran through her at the thought iv it I always towld ye that the grand lady had a winnin’ way wid her that id take the shyness an’ quareness out iv any wan. In a short while the two colleens wor laughin’ an’ gosterin’ like sisters.

‘Sure, ’twas a purty sight they med, the colleen bawn an’ the colleen dhu, sittin’ there together, an’ aich iv them looked the purtier from the other beside her, an’ don’t ye be askin’ me why that was, for I can’t tell ye. Why does the primrose look purtier whin it surprises ye peepin’ out iv the green moss in the hedgerow than plucked in yer hand; why are trees greener wid the blue sky iv summer behind thim? I very purty thing that’s in this world, I’m thinkin’, helps another to look purtier.

‘But, sure, it’s the races I’m goin’ to tell ye about, not the colleens. Well, they wor only short races in the first goin’ off for the small boys ’— (the diplomatic Peter continued with a glance at myself)—‘for there wasn’t any young boy in those parts that was able to run a mile race, much less td win it ‘The mile race was kep’ for the men, an’ ivery wan was sayin’ the fine gent from England was sure an’ sartin’ to win it, an’ faix, if the truth was known, mebbe he was iv the same way iv thinkin’ himself.

‘There was pushin’ an’ crushin’ an’ laughin’ an’ shoutin’ in the crowd whin the great race kem on, with everybody rushin’ to get the best place. an’ all the colleens let on they wor very vexed intirely at the squeezin’ they got, but it didn’t keep thim out iv the crowd at the same time.

‘The boys that wor in the race wor got up regardless, in silk jackets, no less, red, an’ blue, an’ yallow, an’ ivery other colour that id plaze thim; an’ before the race began they wint prancin’ along the track forninst the stand as proud as Punch before the ladies. The last iv thim all that wint by was the fine gent, an’ him dressed in a light blue silk jacket, that was a pound a yard if it was a fardin’, an’ a light blue cap to match it ‘He was a fine cut iv a man—there was no denyin’ that—an’ he stepped like a thoroughbred throwin’ his feet well out from him. Just as he passed he gev a smile up at the two girls, as much as to say, “The race is me own.”

‘Thin they all wint. back to the startin’ post, which was at theiar ind iv the field, an’ there was a shot out iv a pistol, an’ the crowd began shoutin’: “They’re off—they’re off I “

‘The first up past the stand was a boy in red, an’ he racin’ for the bare life, as if he had only twinty yards more to go. Two others kern close afther him in green an’ yallow, an’ thin three in a row; an’ afther that the fine gent be himself, in light blue, goin’ fair an’ aisy, not distressin’ himself in the laste, an’ smilin’ as he ran.

‘The last iv the lot was a boy in his shirt sleeves an’ suspinders, wid bare head an’ bare feet, lookin’ mighty quare behind the gay jackets. The crowd was all laughin’ an’ shoutin’ at the look iv him as he kem on cock-last iv the lot But he kep’ his course, niver mindin’, just five yards behind the fine gentleman in blue.

‘As he drew level wid the grand stand Biddy an’ the grand lady let the same cry out iv thim together:

It’s Patsey! ”

‘Sure enough, that cut iv the whip he got at his own cottage dure had brought Patsey to the races whin coaxin’ couldn’t, just in time to inter agin the man that struck him.

‘The two women looked at aich other sharp an’ suddin; but the grand lady had her guards up first She just gev a quiet little sort iv a laugh,

‘while Biddy turned red an’ white in the wan minnit, an’ was fit to burst out cryin’.

‘The grand lady tuck the poor girl’s hand in her own. It was trimblin’ like a new-caught bird, for she knew her saycrit was gone from her into another woman’s kapin’.

“I hope yer frind will win, me dear,” she whispered; “an’ he will, too, if he can run as well as he can swim. Ho saved my little daughter’s life, God bless him.”

‘At the word all jealousy wint from Biddy’s heart “Thank ye, thank ye,” she whispered in the same voice. “You’re too good to me intirely.”

‘The race was three rounds iv the coorse. Half-way round the red boy an’ the yallow dropped out iv the race an’ lay down pantin’ like two big flowers growin’ out iv the green grass. But the others held on.

‘Past the grand stand they wint agin, the fine gent houldin’ himself back, an’ Patsey followin’ him, his bare feet cornin’ down, silent as failin’ snow, in the other’s tracks. Round they wint agin faster nor before, an’ the crowd cheerin’ an’ shoutin’ all the time.

‘They wOr at the far ind iv the field, lookin’ for all the world like a string iv coloured beads, whin the grand lady pat a sort iv double-barrelled telescope she had into Biddy’s hand.

“Look through that, me dear,” she sez.

‘Biddy let a cry out iv her as she looked, for on the minnit the boys kem in so close that she could see thim as plain as if they wor out fominst her. Just thin the fine gent began to draw up on the others. In an’ out he wint among thim like a doublin’ hare till he was in front iv the lot But wherever he wint, like the tail to a kite Fatsey was afther him.

‘One boy med a bit iv a race for it as the fine gentleman rached him, but afther fifty yards, as hard as they could pelt, he gev way, an’ thin there was me fine gentleman clear iv the crowd an’ the winnin’ post not two hundred yards away.

‘But there, too, was me bowld Patsey in his bare feet an’ shirt sleeves close at his heels. The fine gentleman thought he was winnin’ thin for sure an’ sartin, an’ through the twin telescope Biddy could see the smile still on his face. But he looked back over his shoulder an’ the smile wint out like a quenched candle, an’ if he wasn’t cursin’ on the minnit, troth his face belied him, that’s all.

‘He wint faster an’ faster, but Patsey was still behind him, close as iv they wor tied together wid a short string. They wor racin’ now in rale aimest for the bare life, an’ there was such a look on the fine gent’s face you’d think it was a toothache he’d got all iv a suddin.

‘Just as they turned into the straight down to the winnin’ post, Patsey kem up to him an’ caught him an’ passed him as if he wor standin’ still, an’ drew in front iv him all the same as I’m drawin’ this thread through the eye iv the needle, an’ wint racin’ past the post all be himself, an’ the crowd shoutin’ as if they’d taken lave iv their sinses.

‘The grand lady waved her white handkerchief, an’ Biddy clapped her hands like mad; but Patsey kep’ lookin’ the other way all the time.

There was only wan thing more to be done, an’ that was the boxin’ match, an’ Patsey was late to enter for that They wouldn’t let him into it right or wrong till the fine gintleman sed a good word for him that did the business at wanst Though from the look on his face you might say it wasn’t altogether from frindship he spoke up for Patsey.

There was a boxin’ ring on the green grass right fominst the grand stand, an’ the boys that boxed were to wear gloves. Gloves, inagh! Faix, they wor more like cushions than gloves, I’m thinkin’.

‘Patsey got what was called a “walk over,” the first goin’ off, which was a quare thing, too, considerin’ there was no walkin’ under or over in the business at all at all ‘The first two to jump into the ring was the blacksmith, Tim Rafferty, an’ the fine gent Tim was a strong man, no doubt, but he was a wee taste gone in the left leg, an’ as awkward wid his gloves as a cat wid his front paws in walnut shells.

‘Faix, that fight didn’t last long, anyways. Tim cum thunderin’ at the fine gentleman wid his two arms goin’ like the sails iv a windmill, to knock him into smithereens on the mortial minnit But it was little use for him tryin’ that game, for the divil a bit he could touch him at all You might as well be tryin’ to bate a ghost, the Lord betune us an’ harm. Whether ’twas the head or the body that he aimed at it was gone out iv that before the blow kem.

‘Tim grew mad in the long run an’ med wan drive that would have swep’ the head off him iv it met it, but it met just nothin’ at all, an’ as he staggered half round wid the force iv his own blow, the fine gent finished the job wid a clout on the butt iv the lug that fair tumbled him. He was up agin in a minnit, an’ tore off the gloves an’ flung them from him an’ med at his man wid the bare fists, that wor hard as his own sledge hammer. But those that wor there to see fair play caught him, wan be aich arm, and sed the fight was over, whin he thought ’twas only rightly beginnin’.

“You’re bet,” sez they to the blacksmith.

“Bet, inagh,” sez the blacksmith, “if ye give me wan five minnits at him widout the pillows I’ll let ye know who’s bet”

‘ But they wouldn’t give in to him in that, an’ he wint off wid himself, swearin’ it was a pillow fight that was in it an’ not a boxin’ match at all,

‘Faix, the same thing was near happenin’ to Patsey whin his turn kem to face into the ring. The first rush he med he was met by a righthander on the chest an’ a left-hander undher the chin that sint him staggerin’ back to the ropes. He shook his head to shake the quare feel out iv it, an’ in wid him agin. But this time it was worse than before. For the fine gent ducked under his fist an’ turned as he wint past an’ met him a clip on the side iv the head that brought him to the ground as nate as a bull in the shambles.

‘ The two colleens in the stand above shivered at the sight, but not a sound was out iv aither iv thim.

‘ A man inside the ring took out his watch; ye could hear it tickin’ wid the silence iv the crowd. But before there was twinty seconds gone me bowld Patsey staggered to his feet ‘The fine gent med a rush to finish him out iv his way, but Patsey was in no ways disposed to oblige him in that He dodged whin he saw him cornin’ so smart an’ suddint that the other tumbled over the ropes. There was a laugh from the crowd at that an’ the colour kem back into the cheeks iv the colleens in the grand stand, for they could see that Patsey was laughin’ wid the best of thim.

‘But bedad the other man wasn’t laughin’. There was a dangerous look on his face, an’ his upper lip curled a bit to show the teeth like a dog that id be angry. He stood for a moment where he had picked himself up off the ropes, lettin’ on he was obfusticated be the fall he got, thinkin’ mebbe he’d take Patsey in a trap. But the boy was too cute for him. He kep’ his distance all the time between hoppin’ an’ leppin’, now here an’ now there, as light as a tom-tit on a twig, an’ as hard to lay howld iv. He naither struck a blow nor stopped wan, but just danced out iv the way whin he saw it cornin’.

‘The fine gent got rale mad whin he saw his own game turned agin himself, an’ he kep’ rushin’ at Patsey like a bull at a red rag an’ huntin’ him all round the ring, thinkin’ it was a coward that was in it.

‘Patsey’s chance cum at last He dodged a straight blow iv the other man, an’ before he knew where he was he met him a fist undher the chin that was like a kick from a horse. All the strength that the boy’s arm had gathered long ago from the handle iv the spade an’ the scythe, an’ all the anger iv his heart was in the blow. If it wasn’t for the cushion’ on his fist I’m thinkin’ it would have kilt the man he struck. As it was it lifted him from his feet an’ laid him flat on his back on the grass as quite as a sleepin’ child.

‘There was a roar from die crowd whin the blow was struck that you’d hear a mile off, an’ thin silence that ye could feel in the marrow iv yer bones, for they thought at first that the man was kilt all out ‘But afther a minnit or so he kem to himself an staggered to his feet an’ out wid him over the rope iv the ring widout a word to a sowL

‘ Thin a lot iv the boys broke into the ring an’ caught howld iv Patsey an’ lifted him on their shoulders an’ carried him all over the field, an’ the crowd shoutin’ like mad afther thim, for they wor ready to jump out iv their skins wid delight that their own boy had bet the fine gentleman out of England.

‘There was grate doin’s afther that in the givin’ away iv the prizes. The prize for the mile race was a silver bowl, much like that wan Masther Watty has there wid him, only more room in it’ (There was a complaint before that of the lack of room in my bowl when the porter was distributed). ‘But the prize for the fight was a ring, a goold ring, no less, with diamonds an’ jewels an’ the like in it ’Twas the fine gentleman managed that part iv the business.

‘“A ring is the right soort iv prize,” sez he, “bekase the fight is in the ring ”— and the other min wor sed be him in that ‘But I’m thinkin’ in me own mind that the plan he had in it was to make the fine lady give him a ring fominst all the people in spite iv herself. But there agin he was out iv his bargain.

‘The grand lady gev the bowl to Patsey wid her own hand, “An’ the full iv it iv happiness to ye,” sez she as she gev it ‘But whin it kem to die ring she slipped it over to Biddy Maguire. “ You give that, me dear,” sez she in a whisper.

‘ An’ Biddy blushed as she gev it, an’ Patsey blushed as he tuck it an’ their fingers touched an’ their looks tangled, an’ they did more courtin’ in that wan minnit than you’d do in a year’s talkin’.’

CHAPTER XII

HOW PATSEY CAUGHT THE LEPRECHAUN

‘Go on, Peter,’ urged Mickey Costigan, ‘tell us how Patsey caught the leprechaun. Faix, that’s a trick worth knowin’ anyways.’

‘Aye do, Peter,’ urged Darby Fathy. ‘Don’t be sittin’ there like an owld fool lettin’ on its shy ye are.’

But Peter stood on his dignity.

‘If a thing is worth havin’,’ he said, ‘it’s worth askin’ for, an’ ye might kape a civil tongue in yer head to ask for it, Darby Fathy.’

But when I added my entreaties to theirs Peter coyly took up the tale of his hero,

‘I towld ye before iv the goin’s on betune Patsey an’ his girl at the sports. Troth, it doesn’t need much tellin’ to let ye know that they met bright and early next momin’ in the owld place under the cluster iv hazel trees. But Biddy soon found ’twas no omadaun she had in it that time anyways.

‘ The boy’s arm was where it should be—round the purty colleen’s waist—an’ they wor sittin’ that close together that ye couldn’t slip the edge iv a sharp scythe in betune thim.

‘The boy was pressin’ an’ the girl was shy, as is the way iv the boys an’ girls all the world over.

“‘What’s to hinder us marryin’ at wanst,” sez Patsey, “since we’re both agreeable? ”

“‘What would me daddy say to it?” sez Biddy.

“He may say what he likes,” sez Patsey.

‘“He wouldn’t say what you’d like,” sez Biddy.

“‘Then it’s not much it’s troublin’ me, ma hudgin thiel, what he sez,” sez Patsey, “or what he does, for matter of that Sure, he’s not the Pope to brake the marriage whin it’s wanst med. If he doesn’t like it he must lump it”

“Ye don’t know my dad, acushla,” sez Biddy, “or ye wouldn’t take it so aisy. His good word is betther nor his bad any day.”

“The best thing he has is his daughter,” sez me bowld Patsey, “an’ I’m contint if I get that from him to lave his words afther me.”

“I’m afeard iv him,” sez Biddy.

“Sure he dam’t lay a wet finger on ye, acushla machree.”

“Tisn’t a wet finger he’d lay if the humour tuck him, but a thick stick.”

“I’d like to see him after doin’ the like,” sez Patsey.

“Would ye, indade,” sez Biddy. “Faix, then, I wouldn’t like to feel him, if it’s all the same to ye.”

“What has he agin me for a husband? ” sez Patsey.

“It’s the money that’s throublin’ him,” sez Biddy.

’“I’m not axin’ his money from him,” sez Patsey.

“Faix, it would be small use for ye if ye did, unless ye had enough iv yer own to match it He took his Bible oath he’d give me to no man that couldn’t count sovereigns wid himself in the fortin’.”

“Bedad, that’s a hard sayin’, Biddy alanna; an’ how many sovereigns has he to count?”

“‘Thin that’s no saycrit aither, for he’s always braggin’ an’ boastin’ that he has three hundred ready for me on the day that I marry to his likin’.”

‘The boy was frightened at the word. “I didn’t think,” sez he, “there was that much money in the whole world. Sure, if I was to work an gather an’ scrape from this to St Tibb’s Eve, an’ live on the clippin’s iv tin an’ the squeeze iv an oil rag, I couldn’t kape it together,” sez he.

“Ye could thry,” sez she.

“Aye,” sez he, “I could thry to get howld iv the moon, but much good it would be for me.”

“Flaze don’t put yerself to any trouble on my account, Mr. O’Rourke,” sez the colleen, slippin’ out from undher his arm. “There are others that wouldn’t begrudge to stir their little finger to plaze me.

‘Wid that she began to cry, an’ Patsey began to comfort her, an’ the comfortin’ took a dale iv time an’ trouble, for the colleen was in no hurry but she kep’ her own way through it all that she wouldn’t marry him without the lave iv her daddy.

‘Me poor Patsey was in the divil iv a pucker whin he came to think iv the business that night in his own place, sittin’ fominst the fire wid a pipe betune his teeth an’ a small drop iv punch on the table at his elbow to comfort him.

‘ He had a trifle iv money iv his own, pot by afther payin’ for the place an’ all that was in it But sure that was only a drop in the ocean beside Rory Maguire’s three hundred.

‘Thin he remembered the lucky dale he had wid the owld boy that time long ago. But havin’ got off so well wid his winnin’s the first time, he didn’t want to risk it agin. “Owld Nick,” sez he to himself, “would make sure of mesowl the next goin’ off, an’ I wouldn’t put it past him that the owld boy would be mane enough to come for the money just as I was countin’ it out to Rory Maguire.”

‘He often heard tell in those parts iv a man that got a potato sack iv goold out iv the fairies whin he found thim dancin’ wan night be the edge Iv the forest, an’ him half drunk at the time; but when the momin’ kem it was only a sack iv yellow laves he had in it, an’ that would be small use dalin’ wid Rory Maguire.’

‘The naybours sed ever and always that there was only wan iv the breed iv fairies that could be trusted not to play a mane thrick iv the kind, an’ that was the leprechaun. The cratur was cute enough in his own way, an’ there was no trick he wouldn’t try to kape his goold, an’ small blame to CAUGHT THE LEPRECHAUN 243 him. But iv ye won from him, in the long run he ped up like a gintleman in honest, dacint money, not in withered laves or the like.

‘So Patsey med up his mind that his only chance of gettin’ the money he wanted was to ketch a leprechaun.

‘Now, me dears, I must tell ye that leprechauns wor plinty enough in those parts at the time, but they wor as cute an’ shy as the curalews, an’ as hard to come at. Is it ye don’t know how the leprechaun is to be caught, Master Watty? Thin more shame to thim that has the tachin’ iv ye. Ye might meet wan iv thim yerself any fine momin’ out bird-nestin’ or fishin’ or the like, an’ lose the chance iv a lifetime for want iv the knowledge how to dale wid him.

‘Well, ye must know the leprechaun is caught be lookin’ at him. So long as ye kape yer eyes tight on the cratereen he can’t budge an inch wan way nor the other, an’ all you’ve to do is to howld yer howlt hard until he tells ye where to dig for a crock iv goold.

‘How would you know him iv ye saw him, is it? Faix, ye couldn’t mistake him. It’s the fairies’ cobbler he is, an’ you’ll always find him sittin’ on a creepy’ stool raakin’ or mendin’ their shoes, wid a green coat an’ a red nightcap on him.

‘But it’s aisier sed nor done to catch a leprechaun. Ye might as well thry to catch a weazel asleep, be all accounts. The leprechauns in those parts was cuter again than the common breed, an’ they never let any wan see thim only a blind man. The naybours goin’ through the woods oftentimes would hear the tip-tap iv his little hammer on the soles iv the fairies’ boots. But sarch high up or low down they could never lay eyes on the cratur himself.

‘Still there was blind Phelim O’Neill the fiddler, that was meetin’ thim an’ talkin’ wid thimevery day iv the week. A fine hearty boy was the same Phelim till the sight iv his eyes was tuck from him be a flash iv lightnin’. Faix, ’twas thin the fiddle stood his frind. There wasn’t a wake nor a dance in the whole country-side he wasn’t welkim to, an’ the priest used to say be way iv a joke that Phelim would knock out more money at a weddin’ or a christenin’ than what he himself could, an’ that was wan iv those jokes that had a dale iv truth in it. The leprechauns worn’t the laste taste shy iv Phelim, be all accounts, an’ wor mighty fond iv his music. So oftentimes whin he was goin’ home be night through the woods—for night or day an’ moonlight an’ sunlight wor all the same to poor Phelirn—wan or other iv the leprechauns would call out to him, an’ he’d start a tune for thim, an’ they’d keep time wid their hammers on the lapboord as he played. But sorra penny ever a leprechaun offered him for his trouble, the little craturs are that covetous, and they routin’ in gold.

‘Whin the news iv those goin’s on got wind wan or other iv the naybours would go streelin’ out through the woods iv a night hopin’ to get a sight at the leprechauns, but the craturs wor too cute for thim, an’ afther Foxey Regan fell an’ broke his nose agin a tree in the dark they wan an’ all rose out iv it as a bad job.

‘Now Patsey an’ Phelirn wor always the best iv frinds, bekase Patsey was the finest hand in the parish to humour a tune wid his feet, an’ moreover he could play the fiddle as well as Phelirn himself very near, an’ often stood to him in that ways whin he’d be tired wid the joggin’ iv his elbow.

‘Patsey had a talk wid Phelirn iv the pucker he was in for money, an’ Phelirn was wishful to help him iv he could whin Patsey towld him the leprechauns was his wan hope.

‘“I wish I’d the use Iv me eyes,” sed Phelim, “an’ I’d soon ketch wan iv them same for ye.”

So do I,” sea Patsey; “but what’s the use iv wishin’ whin it’s doin’ that’s wanted? ”

‘ It was only about three days afther that wan night ye might see, if ye was there at the time, the figure of Phelim the Fiddler in his long cotha mor an’ bathered caubeen, wid his fiddle slung over his back, goin’ home be himself through the woods. He stumbled a dale more than he was used to in his walk, as if he had a little drop iv drink taken, but he kep’ his path for all that There was a fine full moon shinin’ that night if he had only the eyes to see it ‘But the fiddler’s ears wor open if his eyes wor shut; an’ all iv a suddint he heard a quare little tip-tap in the distance, as if it wor a bird pickin’ at a tree.

‘He drew the fiddle to him an’ lifted up a lively tune, walkin’ as he played.

‘Thin he stopped for a bit an’ listened, an’ the tip-tap kem to him plainer than before, so he walked on playin’ agin, till he thought he was near up wid it “You’re welkim, Phelim,” sez a little squeaky voice out iv the black shadow iv the trees, so quare an’ suddint that it med him jump.

‘“Ye’ve none iv the naybours wid ye this journey, me man,” sez the voice, wid a laugh like the sharpenin’ iv a saw. “Play us up something lively, something to raise the cockles iv me heart Sure it’s kilt I am for the want iv music.”

‘So the fiddler struck up “Paddy Carey,” an’ he could hear the tip-tap iv the hammer humourin’ the tune, for the little man kem out iv the shadow into the moonlight an’ began agin at his work whin he med full sure there was no wan in it only Phelim the Fiddler.

‘Faix, ’twas there he med the mistake.

‘In the middle of the music me bowld Patsey, who had changed clothes wid Phelim for the time, quietly opened the comer iv wan eye on the quarest sight ye could ever wish to see if ye wor to live to be a thousand.

‘There was the leprechaun sittin’ on a cobbler’s bench, wid a place at wan ind iv it for his wax, an’ his thread, an’ his tacks, an’ his awl, an’ his hammer, an’ his pinchers, an’ all the convayni-ences of his thrade. He had a green jacket an a red nightcap, an’ there was a little black dhudeen stuck in the corner iv his mouth, an’ a drop iv drink in a regular quart pot that wasn’t bigger than a thimble, on the ground beside him. There was a boot iv red leather in his lap, an’ he hammerin’ in tacks into the sole iv it The boot wouldn’t make a glove for yer little finger, but the tacks that he hammered an’ the hammer that he dhruv thim wid wor all rale goold.

‘Me bowld leprechaun was that plazed wid the music that he never wanst looked up, but humoured the tune quicker an’ quicker wid the bate iv his hammer.

‘AH the time Patsey was creepin’ in closer. He kep’ the bow goin’, an’ played louder an’ louder as he closed in, that the leprechaun wouldn’t notice.

‘Thin iv a suddint he dropped the bow on the ground, an’ med a lep an’ a grab, an’ penned me poor leprechaun as nate as a cat id pin a bird that id be just risin’.

‘The leprechaun let a scream out iv him like a trapped weasel whin he felt himself lifted up off the ground, an’ Patsey could feel the cratereen’s heart batin’ under his fingers like a new caught bird.

“Oh! milla murdher,” he cried, “what’s goin’ to become iv me at all at all Phelim, ye blackguard, what do ye mane be such conduct? ” For he was stiff enough in himself, still thinkin’ ’twas only the blind fiddler he had in it. “Fair an’ aisy, me little man,” sez Patsey, “an’ kape a civil tongue in yer head whatever else ye do.”

‘Bedad, whin the leprechaun heard the strange voice, an’ saw the two bright eyes, wide open, an’ laughin’ down at him in the moonlight, he knew he was bet But he thought he’d have another thry at him anyways before he gev in.

How dare ye,” sez he, “come betune me an’ me work?” sez he. “Put me down at wanst, ye foolish ignoramus, an’ be off about yer business.”

‘ But, faix, Patsey only laughed at him all the time.

“Sure, me best business,” sez he, “is wid yer own honour.”

“Don’t ye be callin’ me out iv me name,” sez the leprechaun. “What am I,” sez he, “but a poor tradesman,” sez he, “that has to work hard to aim the bit an’ sup I make use iv? ”

“Ah, thin, where’s the use thryin’ to humbug the people?” sez Patsey. “Sure all the world knows ye’re a leprechaun out iv the fairies.”

If I am itself,” sez the other, “is that any raison why ye should brake in on me, an’ me at me work, an’ spill me drop iv drink an’ knock me pipe out iv me mouth, an’ kape me perched up here,” sez he, “like a bird on a tree, an’ I, havin’ no wings, only to brake me neck if I was to fall from yer clumsy fingers.”

“I’ll let ye go quick enough an’ quite enough,” sez Patsey, “afther ye give me what I’m askin’ off ye.”

“An’ what might that be, me good man? ” sez the leprechaun.

“A crock iv goold,” sez Patsey.

“An’ thin where would the likes iv me get a crock iv goold?” sez the leprechaun.

‘“That’s me own question,” sez Patsey; “an’ whin ye answer it,” sez he, “ye may go back to yer work,” sez he.

“‘Thank ye kindly for that same,” sez the leprechaun; “but if I don’t give ye the goold,” sez he, “what’ll ye do on me thin? ”

“Faix, an’ I’ll make ye give it, that’s all,” sez Patsey.

“Sure ye wouldn’t hurt a little cratereen like me? ” sez the leprechaun.

‘“Deed, thin, I wouldn’t hurt a hair iv yer honour’s head,” sez Patsey; an’ indade, ’twould be hard for him, for the crathur was as bald undher his nightcap as the palm iv yer hand. “But I’d just clap ye clane an’ diver into an empty whiskey jar I have at home, an’ cork ye up,” sez he, “ wid a wad iv brown paper until ye come to raison. So ye may as well do the dacint thing first as last, yer honour.”

“Mebbe ye’re right,” sez the leprechaun; “let’s be goin’,” sez he. “I’ll lade the way iv it be plazin’ to ye.”

I wouldn’t demane yer honour to walk,” sez Patsey, wid a grin on him; “an’ I fit to cany ye wheresomever ye want to go.”

“Hand me up me pipe, anyway, like a dacint man,” sez the leprechaun. “I’m kilt for the want iv a smoke.”

‘ Patsey the Omadaun thought there could be no harm in that, so he stooped down for the pipe, an’ he had his job to find it, for the bowl iv it wasn’t as big as a haw-stone. But the cute little cratur, who had eyes as sharp as a needle, showed where it was lyin’ under a beech lafe.

’He let a laugh out iv him whin he got the dhudeen back into the wrinkled little hand iv him, an’ he knocked out the grain iv ashes that was in it, an’ crammed it tight wid a small share iv tobacco, an’ stuck it in the comer hr his crooked mouth all the same as a Christian.

‘Thin, if ye belave me, it kindled at wanst iv its own accord.

‘The leprechaun tuck wan long pull at the pipe whin he’d got it lighted, an’ where did he blow the smoke but straight into me poor Patsey’s two eyes.

‘The boy was hard set to kape from winkin’. But he knew that if he did he was ruinated, for the leprechaun would be gone from him on the minnit he tuck his eyes off him.

‘He just put down his hand an’ jerked the pipe out iv the leprechaun’s mouth—it burned his fingers, be the same token—an’ he popped the cratur itself into the pocket iv the cotha mor, that was big enough an’ deep enough to howld a round dozen iv the likes iv him.

‘The leprechaun’s voice sounded out iv his pocket like a sweep’s up a chimney.

‘“Take me out,” it cried; “take me out at wanst, an’ I’ll do yer biddin’.”

‘So Patsey lifted him from the pocket, upside down as it happened.

“Where to now, yer honour! ” sez Patsey, as he smoothened the leprechaun betune his fingers.

“Straight on,” sez the leprechaun. “Follow yer nose an’ ye’ll come to what ye’re sakin’.”

‘ So they wint on ever an’ always out iv the wood an’ down towards the village till they come to a big meadow field belongin’ to Foxey Regan.

“It’s there,” sez the leprechaun whin they kem to the middle iv the field,“right under yer fut there’s buried a crock wid five hundred goold sovereigns in it”

“Honour bright? ” sez Patsey.

“Honour bright,” sez the leprechaun. “May I never set a stitch in shoe leather if it’s a lie I’m tellin’ ye. Ye’ve only to dig three fut in the ground to find it.”

“An’ how can I dig,” sez Patsey, “whin I’ve ne’er a spade? ”

“Go home for wan,” sez the leprechaun.

“An’ how’ll I know the spot agin,” sez Patsey, “whin I’ve no mark on it? ”

“I’ll see to that,” sez the leprechaun, “if ye’ll put me down on the ground.”

‘So Patsey put him down on the ground, kapin’ a tight howlt iv him all the time wid the slack iv his trousers betune his fingers an’ thumb, that the cratereen might have the use iv his two hands.

‘The leprechaun tuck his cobbler’s awl an’ dhruv it in the ground, an’ whin he pulled it away agin there kem up afther it through the hole it med a little green spike that grew an’ swelled fominst thim till it kem to a fine tall daffy-down-dilly wid the purty yallow flower noddin’ on the top iv it in the moonlight ‘“Will that do ye for a mark? ’’ sez the leprechaun.

“The best,” sez Patsey.

“Let me go, thin,” sez the leprechaun, an’ wid that Patsey loosened his howlt on the sate iv his trousers.

“Wink wid both eyes,” sez the leprechaun, an whin Patsey opened his eyes agin afther winkin’ the cratur was gone from him clane an’ diver as iv the ground opened an’ swallowed it ‘But the leprechaun let a quare little laugh out iv him in the goin’ that med the boy afeard he had some thrick in it still, for he knew the cratur was cute. Thin the owld womin’s stories that he heard tell iv when he was a gossoon kem to his mind, an’ he tuck an’ brack the neck iv the daffy-down-dilly betune his fingers till its purty head hung down all iv wan side.

‘Thin off wid him to his own house for a spade an’ a bag to put the goold in whin he dug it ‘ He wasn’t more nor a half an hour on his road, but, bedad, the light was near tuck out iv his eyes be the sight he saw whin he got back agin to the meadow field. For a minnit he thought the whole field was turned to goold, for it shone like yallow goold in the moonlight Thin he saw that it was full iv daffy-down-dillys, where there wasn’t the lafe or stalk iv wan an hour before that There was a regular army iv thim in it, all dancin’ in the wind an’ shakin’ wid the laughin’ at the diver thrick me bowld leprechaun had played upon poor Patsey.

‘ But Patsey wasn’t bet yit He med his way through the flock iv thim, carryin’ his spade on his shoulder, an’ a ticklish job it was, they wor that thick together. But he was as tinder wid thim all the time as if they wor young childher, takin’ the best iv care not to hurt wan of thim for a raison he had iv his own. Whin he was near the middle iv the field he saw from him a flower wid its neck broken aa’ its head hangin’ on wan side. Thin, bedad, he knew he’d got the betther iv the leprechaun, clever as he thought himself.

‘He flung the bag down beside him on the ground at wanst, an’ tuck to the spade. A dozen strokes an’ he felt the edge iv it scrape on the crock, an’ a dozen more an’ he had it rowled out on the ground.

‘Faix, the leprechaun was as good as his word. There was a cork iv brown paper stuck in the mouth iv the crock, an’ whin Patsey pulled it out the sovereigns kem out afther it in a yallow strame like wasps from their nest He counted five hundred into his bag an’ three over for luck.

‘Patsey put the crock back into the hole an filled up the grave wid the clay, an’ fixed the sod even on the top iv that, so that no wan would ever know ’twas stirred. Thin back home he went as fast as ever his two legs could cany him with his winners.

‘Foxey Regan was fit to be tied whin he saw his field in the momin’ full up iv daffy-down- dillies, an’ many a long day’s work it tuck to root them up out iv it; but that’s not the story I’m tellin’ ye this time.

‘ Bright an’ airly next momin’ Patsey was up to Rory Maguire, wid his bag iv gold over his shoulder an’ the schoolmaster wid him to see fair play.

“‘Ah, thin, what have ye in the baggeen,

Patseysez Rory, “that it’s killin’ ye that ways wid the weight iv it? Is it new potatoes ye have in it?”

“No, nor owld potatoes either,” sez Patsey; “it’s goold I have in it”

“Go along out iv that yerself an’ yer goold,” sez Rory.

“‘Thry for yerself,” sez Patsey, an’ he gives him the bag.

‘Rory was for takin’ it betune his finger an’ thumb, it was that small; but it pulled from him be the weight iv it for as strong as he was, an’ kem down thump on his corns.

‘That druv him clane mad. “It’s no lie to call ye an omadaun,” he sez to Patsey. “It’s broken stones ye have in the bag. But I’m not the wan to play yer fool’s thricks on, I can tell ye that Be off wid yerself an’ yer bag before I brake every bone in yer body.”

‘“Not till me business is done first,” sez Patsey, not the laste frightened by his tantrums.

“An’ what’s yer business, may I ax, me good man? ” sez Rory, keepin’ the lid on the rage that was boilin’ up in him “I’m come to marry yer daughter Biddy.”

“Musha, bad scran to yerself, an’ yer impudence.”

“Are ye a man iv yer word? ” sez Patsey.

“I’ll very soon let ye know that,” sez Rory.

“ Didn’t ye swear ye’d give her to the man that id count sovereigns wid ye? ”

“An’ if I did itself, what affair is that iv yours, ye poor, wake-minded omadaun? ”

“I’m the man to do it,” sez Patsey.

“He is just that,” sez the schoolmaster, puttin’ in his own word.

‘Rory stopped lookin’ for the blackthorn stick, an’ stared at the two iv thim, wid his mouth open. “Is it in aimest ye are? ” sez he.

“Thry me,” sez Patsey.

“Bedad, I will,” sez he.

’Wid that, he lifts up the hearthstone as if it wor the lid iv a box, an’ tuck out from the hole undher it a bag iv his own that jingled as he shook it ‘Thin the two iv thim set to work in rale aimest Rory tuck wan ind iv the kitchen table, that was as white as snow wid the dint iv scourin’, an’ Patsey tuck the other, aich man wid his bag beside him. The schoolmaster was betune the two iv thim to see fair-play. Then they began plankin’ down the goold sovereigns as fast as if it wor cards they wor datin’ in a game iv “spoil five,” an’ the schoolmaster countin’. Rory held his own for a while, but he began to go slow whin he found himself cornin’ near the ind iv his bag.

“Two hundered an’ ninety-eight, two hundered an’ ninety-nine, three hundered,” sez the schoolmaster, countin’.

‘Rory stopped at that, an’ Patsey wint on countin’ agin for himself.

‘Three hundered an’ wan, three hundered an’ two,” an’ he kep’ puttin’ down the money.

‘But the schoolmaster stopped him. “Where’s the use iv tazin’ the dacint man,” sez he,“whin the game is over?”

“I’m bet,” sez Rory, “but I’ll never go back iv me word. The money is yer own an’ the girl along wid it”

‘At that momint, if you’d belave me, who should walk into the room but Biddy herself, lookin’ as purty an’ innocent as a flower iv the field.

‘Patsey never sed a word good nor bad, but just clapped his arm round her waist an’ kissed her forninst the two iv thim.

“Behave yerself, sir,” sez Biddy.

“I will so,” sez Patsey, an’ he kissed her agin. Whoever called that boy an omadaun,” sez the schoolmaster, “was a liar.” ’

THE END.