Chapter II: Part 2

“No,” says the saint. “Aich of us, you see, takes our turn at the gates on our own festival days.”

“Holy Moses!” shouts Paddy. “Thin ’tis to Saint Pathrick himself I’ve been talkin’ all this while back. Oh murdher alive, did I ever think I’d live to see this day!”

Begor the poor _augashore_ of a man was fairly knocked off his head to discover he was discoorsin’ so fameeliarly wud the great Saint Pathrick, an the great saint himself was proud to see what a dale the little man from Portlaw thought of him; but he didn’t let on to Paddy how plaized he was. “Ah!” says he, “sure we’re all on an aiquality here. You’ll be a great saint yourself, maybe, wan of these days.”

“The heavens forbid,” says Paddy, “that I’d dhrame of ever being on an aiquality wud your reverence! Begor ’tis a joyful man I’d be to be allowed to spake a few words to you wance in a blue moon. Aiquality _inagh_!” says he. “Sure what aiquality could there be between the great apostle of Ould Ireland and Paddy Power, general dayler, from Portlaw?”

“I wish there was more of ’em your way of thinkin’, Paddy,” says Saint Pathrick, sighin’ deeply.

“An’ do you mane to tell me,” says Paddy, “that any craychur inside there ’ud dare to put himself on an aiqual footin’ wud yourself?”

“I do, thin,” says Saint Pathrick; “an’ worse than that,” says he, “there’s some of ’em thinks ’tis very small potatoes I am, in their own mind. I gives you me word, Paddy, that it takes me all my time occasionally to keep my timper wud Saint George an’ Saint Andhrew.”

“Bad luck to ’em both!” says Paddy, intherruptin’ him.

“Whisht!” says Saint Pathrick. “I partly admires your sentiments, but I must tell you there’s no rale ill-will allowed inside here. You’ll feel complately changed wance you gets at the right side of the gate.”

“The divil a change could make me keep quiet,” says Paddy, “if I heard the biggest saint in Paradise say a hard word agen you, or even dar’ to put himself on a par wud you!”

“Oh, Paddy!” says Saint Pathrick, “you mustn’t allow your timper to get the betther of you. ’Tis hard, I know, _avic_, to sthruggle at times agen your feelin’s, but the laiste said the soonest mended.”

“An’ will I meet Saint George and Saint Andhrew whin I get inside?”

“You will,” says Saint Pathrick; “but you mustn’t disgrace our counthry by makin’ a row wud aither of ’em.”

“I’ll do my best,” says Paddy, “as ’tis yourself that axes me. An’ is there any more of ’em that thrates you wud contimpt?”

“Well, not many,” says Saint Pathrick. “An’ indeed,” says he, “’tis only an odd day we meets at all; an’ I can tell you I’m not a bad hand at takin’ my own part—but there’s wan fellow,” says he, “that breaks my _giddawn_ intirely.”

“An’ who is he? the bla’guard!” says Paddy.

“He’s an uncanonized craychur named Brakespeare,” says Saint Pathrick.

“A wondher you’d be seen talkin’ to the likes of him!” says Paddy; “an’ who is he at all?”

“Did you never hear tell of him?” says Saint Pathrick.

“Never,” says Paddy.

“Well,” says Saint Pathrick, “he made the worst bull—”

“Thin,” says Paddy, intherruptin’ him in hot haste, “he’s wan of ourselves—more shame for him! O wait till I gets a grip of him by the scruff of the neck!”

“Whisht! I tell you!” says Saint Pathrick. “Perhaps ’tis committin’ a vaynial sin you are now, an’ if that wor to come to Saint Pether’s ears, maybe he’d clap twinty years of Limbo on to you—for he’s a hard man sometimes, especially if he hears of any one losin’ his timper, or getting impatient at the gates. An’ moreover,” says Saint Pathrick, “himself an’ this Brakespeare are as thick as thieves, for they both sat in the same chair below. I had a hot argument wud Nick yesterday.”

“Ould Nick, is it?” says Paddy.

“No,” says Saint Pathrick laughin’. “Nick Brakespeare, I mane—the same indeveedual I was tellin’ you about.”

“I beg your reverence’s pardon,” says Paddy, “an’ I hopes you’ll excuse my ignorance. But you wor goin’ to give me an account of this hot argument you had wud the bla’guard whin I put in my spoke.”

Begor Saint Pathrick dhrew in his horns thin, an’ fearin’ Paddy might think they wor in the habit of squabblin’ in heaven he says, “Of coorse, I meant only a frindly discussion.”

“An’ what was the frindly discussion about?” axes Paddy.

“About this bull of his,” says Saint Pathrick.

“The mischief choke himself an’ his cattle!” says Paddy.

“Begor,” says Saint Pathrick, “’twas choked the poor man was, sure enough.”

“More power to the man that choked him!” says Paddy. “I hopes ye canonized him.”

“’Twasn’t a man at all,” says Saint Pathrick.

“A faymale, perhaps?” says Paddy.

“Fie, fie, Paddy,” says Saint Pathrick. “Come, guess again.”

“Ah, I’m a poor hand at guessin’,” says Paddy.

“Well, ’twas a blue bottle,” says Saint Pathrick.

“An’ was it thryin’ to swallow the bottle an’ all he was?” says Paddy. “He must have been ‘a hard case.’”

Begor Saint Pathrick burst out laughin’, an’ says he, “You’ll make your mark here, Paddy, I have no doubt.”

“I’ll make my mark on them that slights your reverence, believe me,” says Paddy.

“Hush!” says Saint Pathrick, puttin’ his finger on his lips an’ lookin’ very solemn an’ business-like. “Here comes Saint Pether,” he whispers, rattlin’ the kays to show he was mindin’ his duties. “He looks in good-humour too; so it’s in luck you are.”

“I hope so, at any rate,” says Paddy; “for the clouds is very damp, an’ I’m throubled greatly wud the rheumatics.”

“Well, Pathrick,” says Saint Pether, comin’ up to the gates—Paddy Power could just get a sighth of the pair inside through the bars of the wicket—“how goes the inemy? Have you had a hard day of it, my son?”

“A very hard mornin’,” says Saint Pathrick. “They wor flockin’ here as thick as flies at cock-crow—I mane,” says he, gettin’ very red in the face, for he was in dhread he was afther puttin’ his fut in it wud Saint Pether, “I mane just at daybreak.”

“It’s strange,” says Saint Pether, in a dhramey kind of a way, “but I’ve noticed meself that there’s often a great rush of people in the early mornin’: often I don’t know whether it’s on my head or my heels I do be standin’ wud the noise they kicks up outside, elbowin’ wan another, an’ bawlin’ at me as if it was hard of hearin’ I was.”

“How did the match go?” says Saint Pathrick, aiger to divart Saint Pether’s mind from his throubles.

“Grand!” says Saint Pether, brightenin’ up. “Hurlin’ is a great game. It takes all the stiffness out of my ould joints. But who’s that outside?” catching sighth of Paddy Power.

“A poor fellow from Ireland,” says Saint Pathrick.

“I dunno how we’re to find room for all these Irishmen,” says Saint Pether, scratchin’ his head. “’Twas only last week I gev ordhers to have a new wing added to the Irish mansion, an’ begor I’m towld to-day that ’tis chock full already. But of coorse we must find room for the poor sowls. Did this chap come _viâ_ Purgathory?” says he.

“No,” says Saint Pathrick. “They sint him up direct.”

“Who is he” says Saint Pether.

“His name is Paddy Power,” says St. Pathrick, “He seems a dacent sort of craychur.”

“Where’s he from?” axes Saint Pether.

“The Parish of Portlaw,” says Saint Pathrick.

“Portlaw!” says Saint Pether. “Well, that’s sthrange,” says he, rubbin’ his chin. “You know I never forgets a name, but to my sartin knowledge I never heard of Portlaw before. Has he a clane record?”

“There’s a thrifle wrong about it,” says Saint Pathrick. “He’s down on the way bill, but there are some charges agen him not quite rubbed out.”

“In that case,” says Saint Pether, “we’d best be on the safe side, an’ sind him to Limbo for a spell.”

Begor when Paddy Power heard this he nearly lost his seven sinses wud the fright, so he puts his face close up to the wicket, an’ he cries out in a pitiful voice,—

“O blessed Saint Pether, don’t be too hard on me. Sure even below, where the law is sthrict enough agen a poor sthrugglin’ boy, they always allows him the benefit of the doubt, an’ I gives you my word, yer reverence, ’twas only by an accident the slate wasn’t rubbed clane. I know for sartin that Father McGrath said some of the words of the absolution before the life wint out of my body. Don’t dhrive a helpless ould man to purgathory, I beseeches you. Saint Pathrick will go bail for my good behaviour, I’ll be bound; an’ tis many the prayer I said to your own self below!”

Faix, Saint Pether was touched wud the implorin’ way Paddy spoke, an’ turnin’ to Saint Pathrick he says, “’Tis a quare case, sure enough. I don’t know that I ever remimber the like before, an’ my memory is of the best. I think we’d do right to have a consultation over the affair before we decides wan way or the other.”

“Ah give the poor _angashore_ a chance,” says Saint Pathrick. “’Tis hard to scald him for an accident. Besides,” says he, brightenin’ up as a thought sthruck him, “you say you never had a man before from the parish of Portlaw, an’ I remember you towld me wance that you’d like to have a represintative here from every parish in the world.”

“Thrue enough,” says Saint Pether; “an maybe I’d never have another chance from Portlaw.”

“Maybe not,” says Saint Pathrick, humourin’ him.

So Saint Pether takes a piece of injy-rubber from his waistcoat pocket, an’ goin’ over to the enthry-book he rubs out the charges agen Paddy Power.

“I’ll take it on meself,” says he, “to docthor the books for this wance, only don’t let the cat out of the bag on me, Pathrick, my son.”

“Never fear,” says Saint Pathrick. “Depind your life on me.”

“Well, it’s done, anyhow,” says Saint Pether, puttin’ the injy-rubber back into his pocket; “an’ if you hands me over the kays, Pat,” says he, “I’ll relase you for the day, so that you can show your frind over the grounds.”

“’Tis a grand man you are!” says Saint Pathrick. “My blessin’ on you, _avic_!”

“Come in, Paddy Power,” says Saint Pether, openin’ the gates; “an’ rimember always that you wouldn’t be here for maybe nine hundred an’ ninety-nine year or more only that you’re the only offer we ever had from the Parish of Portlaw.”

I suppose it’s well known that King John made two visits to the city of Watherford. The first time he came he was only a slip of a boy of about nineteen year, an’ his father, who had a hard job rearin’ him (for ’tis the unmannerdly young cub he was) thought he’d kill two birds wud wan stone by gettin’ rid of the prince for a short spell in the first place, an’ by gettin’ the boy to make himself frindly wud the Irish chiefs in the second place.

But nothin’ would suit young Masther John except divarsion an’ bla’guardin’. The moment he put his fut on Irish soil he began to poke fun at the ould chieftains’ beards. ’Twas jealous the young jackanapes was of the fine hairy faces of the crowd that met him on the quay of Watherford, for divil a hair he could grow on the upper part of his lip, though he was near dhraggin’ the English coort into bankruptcy wud the quantities of bears’ grease an’ other barbers’ thricks he thried day afther day to coax out even a few morsels of a moustache.

Anyhow he made naither a good beginnin’ nor a good endin’ on his first thrip to Ireland. He ate so much fresh salmon that a rash broke out on him, an’ nearly dhrove him to despair, for he was fond of the faymales, an’ a man wud a bad rash even if he’s a prince of the blood isn’t the soort of craychur to make much headway wud the girls.

He got over the rash, however, in due coorse; an’ built an hospital in mimory of his recovery; an’ to this day it stands there at the fut of John’s Hill, an’ is called the “Leper Hospital.”

As soon as he got well rid of the rash, he began to make ructions in the counthry, kickin’ out the rale ould anshant owners of the soil, an’ makin’ presents of what didn’t belong to him to his own follyers. Begor even owld Henery, the father, got unaisy at the son’s plan of campaign, so back he calls Prince John an’ puts a Misther Decoorcy in his place.

Well, time passed on, an’ when his call came, ould Henery the Second wint to Limbo; an’ afther a spell, the son John got a howld of the throne. He had always a hankerin’ for the Watherford salmon, even afther the rash it broke out on him, so as soon as he could make things snug in the English coort, away he sails again for Ireland.

This time of coorse he was a full king, an’ as he was several years ouldher, the Watherford people naaturally expected his manners would have improved; so they made up their minds to forget the thricks an’ bla’guardin’ of the nineteen year ould prince, an’ to give King John a hearty welcome.

When the Mayor an’ Corporation heard the news that the royal barge was comin’ up the river, they put on their grand robes and started down the quay. They wint outside the walls a bit until they came to a piece of slob land near the mouth of a sthrame, an’ there they stud up to their ankles in slush until the king’s ship hove in sighth. Thin they waved a flag of welcome to his Majesty, who was standin’ on deck, an’ bawled out to him to dhrop anchor abreast of them. So the captain—a red-whiskered Welshman who chawed more tobaccy than was wholesome for him—puts the ship’s head in for the shore, an’ dhropped anchor as soon as he got close to the slob where the Mayor and Corporation wor standin’.

“How are we to get ashore, boys?” says King John, makin’ a foghorn of his fists.

“Aisy, _avic_,” says the Mayor. “It’s a sthrong ebb tide now, an’ if you’ll go below into your cabin the ship will dhry while your clanein’ your face an’ hands an’ fixin’ the crown on your poll.”

“All right,” says King John. “Come aboord as soon as the tide laives her.”

“I will,” says the Mayor.

Wud that King John went down to the cabin, an’ in about half an hour the ship began to ground an’ very soon afther the Mayor, not heedin’ the sighth of a fut or two of wather between him an’ the king’s craft, made a start to go down to her.

“Howld on there, where ye are,” says he to the Corporation. “If ye was all to come aboord maybe ’tis heel over the little vessel would, for she looks a crank piece of goods.”

“All right,” says the Corporation. “We’ll wait here till you return, an’ a safe journey to your worship!”

Well, whin the Mayor got on deck of coorse his boots were dhrippin’ wud mud an’ wather.

“Is there a door-mat aboord?” says he to the skipper.

“Divil a wan,” says the skipper. “Do you think ’tis in a lady’s chamber you are?”

“You’re an unmannerdly lot,” says the Mayor, stampin’ on the decks an’ givin’ a kick out wud his left leg to shake some of the water out of his boot.

Just at that moment up comes King John from the cabin, an’ a few spatthers of mud went into his royal eye.

Before the Mayor could open his mouth to ax pardon the King bawls out at him, “What the mischief do you mane, you lubber? Will nothin’ plaize you only knockin’ the sighth out of my eyes an’ dirtyin’ my decks wud your muddy say-boots? ’Tis more like a mud-lark than a Mayor you are.”

The poor Mayor very nearly lost his timper intirely at the insultin’ words of King John, for ’twas none of his fault that he dirtied the decks, but he managed to conthrol himself, an’ says he, “I ax your majesty’s pardon for bringing the mud aboord, but might I make so bowld as to inquire how I could be expected to have clane boots afther thrampin’ through the slush out there. An’ as for knockin’ the sighth out of your eyes,” says he, “I give you me word I never seen you comin’ up the cabin stairs or I wouldn’t have lashed out wud my leg.”

“Give me none of your lip,” says the King. “I’d cut your ugly sconce off if I thought there was an atom of thraison in your mind.”

“Thraison!” says the Mayor, mighty indignant, for ’tis a proud soort of a man he was in his way. “I don’t know the maynin’ of the word.”

“I’ll soon tache you the maynin’ of it, you spalpeen,” says the King; “an’ if you don’t go down on your bended knees an’ beg my pardon this minute, an’ give me your note of hand for five hundred pound I’ll dhraw your teeth first for you, an’ thin I’ll thry you for thraison, wud meself for judge and jury, as soon as I sets fut in the city.”

The mischief only knows what would have happened thin only for a chum of the King’s who came up from the cabin at that minute.

“Your Majesty,” says the young lord, “I think, with all due respects to you, you’re too hard agen the Mayor. Sure the poor man did his best. He came aboord at the risk of gettin’ a heavy cowld in his head, in ordher to give you an airly welcome, an’ how could he mane thraison when he ran such a risk to sarve you?”

“Maybe you’re right,” says King John, who owed the young lord a big lump of money and was partial to him for other raisons too. “Maybe you’re right; an’ I know,” says he, “that my timper is none of the best; and moreover the say-sickness isn’t out of my stomach yet, bad luck to it! All right,” says he, turnin’ to the Mayor, an’ spittin’ on his fist. “Put it there,” says King John, howldin’ out his hand.

So the Mayor spit in his own fist, an’ the pair shuk hands quite cordial.

All would have gone well then but for the iligant beard an’ whiskers the Mayor wore. The sighth of them fairly tormented King John, an’ the bla’guard broke out in him again as he looked at his worship an’ saw him sthrokin’ the fine silky hairs which (savin’ your presence) nearly shut out the view of the honest man’s stomach.

“I’ll take me oath ’tis a wig,” says the King to himself; “an’ faith if the wig isn’t stuck mighty fast to his chin the tug I’ll give it will soon laive it in fragments on the deck.”

So the King goes over to the Mayor an’ purtended to be admirin’ the beautiful goold chain his worship carried round his neck, an’ while a cat would be lickin’ her ear he gives the beard such an onmerciful dhrag that he tore a fistful of it clane out of the dacent man’s chin.

The Mayor set up a screech—an small blame to him—that you’d hear from this to Mullinavat, an’ begor the crowd ashore thought ’twas bein’ murdhered he was; so King John, fearin’ the Corporation might thry to sink himself an’ the ship if they knew he was afther damagin’ their mayor, thought ’twas the best of his play to knuckle undher at wance. He begs the Mayor’s pardon in a mortial funk, an’ says he to him, “We’d best be gettin’ ashore immajertly the both of us.”

The poor Mayor of coorse couldn’t afford to show timper agen a king, so brushin’ the scaldin’ tears off his cheek he made up his mind to pocket his pride; but at the same time says he to himself, “I’ll tache this unmannerdly cub a lesson before he’s many hours ouldher.”

“All right, your majesty,” says he, aloud, to the King, “I quite agrees wud you that ’tis betther the pair of us should go ashore at wance; but come here,” says he, takin’ King John to the bulwarks of the ship an’ pointin’ over the side. “Now I ax you,” says he, “how are you to get ashore wud at laiste a fut of wather inside the little vessel still, an’ fifty yards, more or less, of dirty soft mud forenenst you?”

Begor, the King seemed puzzled at this; but he knew there was no time to be lost, for the crowd ashore was beginnin’ to grow bigger, and it was aisy to see that throuble was brewin’, for a few of the quay boys were peltin’ an odd pavin’-stone at the ship. “I laive it to you, Misther Mayor,” says he; “but whatever you do, don’t keep me standin’ here in the cowld, for I have a wake chest, an’ my inside is complately out of ordher afther the voyage.”

“Begor!” says the Mayor, dodgin’ a box of a pavin’-stone that came aboord that minute, “I dunno what’s best to be done. You’d get your death if you wor to thramp it ashore in them patent leather boots of yours. I’ll tell you what I’ll propose,” says he.

“That’s what I’m waitin’ for you to do,” says the King, intherruptin’ him; “an’ if you don’t be quick about it, maybe ’tis hot wud a stone I’ll be, an’ in that case,” says he, “’twill be me duty as a king to bombard the city wud cannon-balls. D’ye mind me now?” says he, beginnin’ to show timper agen.

“I do,” says the Mayor. “Sure, if you didn’t take the words out of my mouth, I was goin’ to say that I’d carry you safe ashore on my own two showldhers.”

“Very well,” says King John; “but if you wish for paice an’ quietness you’d betther stir your stumps quick, for I tell you I won’t stand here to be made a cockshot of by these Watherford bla’guards.”

“Come on, thin,” says the Mayor.

So wud that the sailors fixed what they calls a cradle, an’ a few frinds of the King lifted him up on the showldhers of the Mayor, an’ down the pair wor lowered into the little wash of wather inside the ship.

“Howld a tight grip of me now,” says the Mayor, makin’ a start; “for ’tis an onsartin sort of a journey. There’s a dale of shifthin’ sands about here, an’ if I wor to make a false step or lose my bearin’s, maybe they’d never hear of your majesty again in England; p’raps ’tis swallyed up in the mud the pair of us ’ud be, an’ I have a heavy family dependin’ on me.”

“I’ll keep a study grip,” says the King; “an’ for your own sake, an’ the sake of your heavy family, I’d recommend you to pick your steps as if ’twas threadin’ on eggs you wor.”

“Never fear,” says the mayor. “Is the crown fixed firm on your head?”

“’Tis,” says King John.

“The raison I axed you,” says the Mayor, “is that I thought ’twas a thrifle too big for you. I noticed it wobblin’ about on your head afther you came up from the cabin.”

“Well, to tell you the thruth, an’ ’tisn’t often I do the like,” says the King, “I didn’t laive my measure for that crown; but I’ve rowled a sthrip of newspaper inside the rim of it, an’ it doesn’t fit at all bad now,” says he, shakin’ his head, an’ fixin’ an eye-glass into his eye.

“Did you buy it ready-made? pardon me for axin’,” says the Mayor.

“No,” says King John; “but it belonged to my big brother, Richard.”

“I’ve heard tell of him,” says the Mayor. “The ‘Lion Heart’ they called him, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” says King John; “but between yerself and meself”—for he was mighty jealous of his brother, an’ indeed, he hadn’t a good word to throw to a dog—“’twas a ‘thrick’ lion he tore the heart out of.”

“Is that so?” says the Mayor.

“’Tis,” says King John. “You see,” says he, “himself an’ Blondin wor great chums intirely, an’ Blondin bein’ a circus man—”

“I know,” intherrupted the Mayor. “He crossed over the Falls of Niagry on a rope, didn’t he?”

“He did,” says King John. “’Tis round his neck I’d like to have had the rope, for ’tis an onaisey time of it he gave meself be rescuin’ my brother. I made sure they’d cooked his goose in that Austrian castle, but nothin’ would suit his chum Blondin, if you plaize, except whistlin’ some of his ould circus tunes outside the walls, until the King of Austria let him in. Well, Blondin brought in a thrick lion wud him that he used to be showin’ off at the fairs. ‘Look here,’ says he to the King of Austria, ‘that man you’re keepin’ down in the cellar is a match for a lion.’ ‘Prove it,’ says the King of Austria. ‘I will,’ says Blondin. ‘Well, take the muzzle off yer baste,’ says the King of Austria, ‘an’ let the pair of ’em have a fair stand-up fight; an’ if King Richard bates the lion I’ll give him his liberty.’ ‘Done!’ says Blondin; so wud that he brings the lion down into the cellar, an’ of coorse my brother knew ’twas only an ould painted jackass without a tooth in his head, so he makes wan grab at the unfortunate animal an’ tore the heart clane out of him.”

“Oh, murdher!” says the Mayor. “An’ that’s why they call him the ‘Lion Heart,’ is it?”

“It is,” says King John.

“An’ what’s that they calls yerself?” says the Mayor, who knew well that King John didn’t like to be reminded of the nickname he was known undher in the English Coorts, an’ wanted to take a rise out of him on the quiet.

“I’ll tell you what, my bucko,” says King John, for he felt the Mayor all of a thremble undher him, an’ he knew it was smotherin’ a laugh in his sleeve he was, “I’ll tell you what, my bucko,” says he, “you’d betther give me none of your sauce. Only for the onnathural way I’m placed now, perched up here like a canary-bird, I’d soon let you know who you wor thryin’ to poke your fun at. D’ye mind me now?”

“Begonnies!” says the Mayor, “’tis no fun, I can tell you, to be endeavourin’ to get safe ashore wud such a precious load on me showlders. If yer Majesty thinks ’tis for a lark I’m carryin’ you, let me tell you that you’re intirely mistaken. Oh murdher!” says he, dhroppin’ on wan knee, “but ’tis into a boghole we are!”

Of coorse he knew there wasn’t a boghole wudin a mile of him, but he wanted to divart the King’s mind from what he was afther sayin’ about his nickname, for ’tis in dhread he was that maybe he was carryin’ the joke too far.

“Boghole!” bawls the King, nearly jumpin’ out of his skin wud the fright. “Let me down, you scoundhrel,” says he. “I see now that ’tis a thraisonable plot you have agen me afther all. I wondhered why it was you worn’t makin’ a sthraight coorse for the firm shore.”

An’ sure enough the Mayor had gone a dale out of his road just in ordher to have a rise out of King John, to pay him off for havin’ given his beard the tug.

The pair of ’em wor now standin’ close to the mouth of the pill, an’ the mud all round was as soft as butthermilk, an’ the poor Mayor was more than half-way up to his knees in it; but he knew every inch of the ground, an’ wasn’t in the laiste danger or dhread of himself of coorse, if King John fell from his showlders there ’ud be an end of him, for he’d rowl down into the wathers of the pill before the Mayor could have time to get a grip of him.

“Go straight for the shore this minute, I command you,” says the King.

The Mayor saw that his Majesty was in a fair rage, so he made up his mind not to play any more thricks on him but to make a short cut through the mud to the Corporation.

“Howld your grip now,” says he, givin’ the King a sudden hoist to straighten him on his back; an’ before the words wor well out of his mouth off tumbles King John’s crown an’ down it rowls into the pill.

“Oh murdher!” says the mayor, forgettin’ himself complately, an’ going to dhrop the King into the mud. “’Tis lost the crown is! There’s twenty fut of wather there if there’s an inch, an’ there isn’t a diver on the face of the earth would take a headher into it, the wathers are that filthy!”

“What are you doin’, you ruffian?” screams the King, catchin’ a grip of the Mayor’s whisker wud wan hand an’ of the goold chain wud the other. “Dhrop me at the peril of your life, you onnathural mousther,” says he.

“An’ what about the crown?” says the Mayor, thryin’to take the King’s fist out of his whiskers.

“Let it go to Jericho!” says King John.

“’Twouldn’t be the first time ’twas there, anyhow” says the Mayor, who was fond of his joke.

“’Tis a quare man you are,” says King John, thryin’ to smother a laugh; “but go on, you bla’guard,” says he, “an’ put me on dhry land at wance, an’ no more of your thricks.”

“Never fear!” says the Mayor; “an’ I hopes we’re none the worst frinds afther all’s said an’ done.”

“None the worse,” says King John, “only we’ll be betther frinds as soon as you land me in a hard spot.”

So the Mayor put his best fut forward an’ in a few minutes himself an’ the King were shakin’ hands wud the Corporation.

“You’ll catch your death of cowld,” says the Mayor to King John, “if you stand there much longer wudout your crown. Have you any objection,” says he, “to wearin’ my hat for a spell until they have time to forge a new figure-head for you?”

“Not the laiste objection in life,” says King John, fixin’ the Mayor’s hat on his head. “But ’tis dhry work, shakin’ hands, boys,” says he, addhressin’ the crowd assembled on the quay; “so the sooner we shapes our coorse for the nearest _shebeen_ the betther I’ll like it, at any rate.”

“Bravo!” says the Corporation, startin’ a procession wud King John at the head of ’em an’ a fife an’ dhrum band from Ballybricken follyin’ up in the rear.

Well, to cut a long story short, King John whin he was laivin’ Watherford made a present of his borrowed _caubeen_ to the Corporation; an’ if you doubts my word you can go down to the Town Hall any day an’ ax to see King John’s hat, an’ the Mayor’s secrethary will show you the self-same wan that King John got the loan of from the ould anshent Mayor—an’ a very dilapidated speciment of head gear it is too.

That’s the true story of how King John lost his crown in the wash of the Pill, as the little sthrame is called; an’ sure ’tis known as John’s Pill to this day.

It was a little before the dawn of a July mornin’ many year ago, when Jimmy Murphy, a thin, spare man that kept the enthrance gates of the bridge of Watherford, at the County Kilkenny side, was roused out of a sound sleep by a terrible clatther.

He jumped up off his bed an’ came out of the toll-house rubbin’ his eyes, an’ the first thing he caught a glimpse of was the flash of steel. There wasn’t much light in the sky, an’ it tuk little Jimmy the best part of a minute before he spied a horseman outside, who was runnin’ his swoord back and for’a’d along the bars of the gates just like a little scamp of a boy when he’s passin’ a set of railin’s wud a stick in his hand.

“Howld your row, will you?” shouts Jimmy at the horseman.

“Open! open! quick!” shouts the horseman back at him. “I’m in a desperate hurry, my good man.”

“Take it aisy!” says Jimmy. “I’m not hard of hearin’, thanks be to Heaven! What’s your business at this time of night?”

“I’m James the Second,” says the man on the horse, “an’ King Billy’s sogers are hot fut afther me.”

“Ah thin,” says Jimmy, undher his breath, “so ’tis to ‘dirty Shamus’ I’m spaykin’!”

“What’s that you’re muttherin’?” says King James.

“_Naboclish!_” says Jimmy Murphy.

“Thranslate that,” says King James, “for I’m a poor hand at the Irish.”

“So I’ve heard,” says Jimmy. “It manes God save the King.”

“Which King?” axes James the Second.

“Yerself, of coorse,” says Jimmy.

“If that’s your mind,” says King James, “you’d betther let me through at wance, for if the Orangemen catches me ’tis mince-mate they’ll make of me.”

“I’ll turn the lock for you,” says Jimmy, “wud a heart an’ a half; but what am I to say to the sogers when they comes up an’ axes me if you passed through these gates?”

“Tell ’em a lie, of coorse,” says King James.

“’Deed an’ I won’t, my good man,” says Jimmy.

“What!” says James the Second. “Not tell a lie to save a king!”

“No,” says Jimmy; “nor to save my own immortal sowl would I say a word that wasn’t gospel thruth, on the face of it.”

“Thin what’s to be done?” says King James. “Couldn’t you tell ’em a white lie if your conscience won’t stretch to a black wan?”

“Well,” says Jimmy, “I might tell a weeny wan on a pinch. I have it!” says he, for the little man had as many twists an’ turns in him as a corkscrew. “There’s a small private enthrance at the side of the gate here, wud just room enough for a man to pass through, an’ if you gets off your horse I’ll let you in by this private enthry, an’ then I can go outside meself an’ lade the baste in by the big gate, an’, of coorse, I can tell the Orangemen wud an aisy conscience that you didn’t come through the main enthrance.”

“Begor,” says King James, “if I had a hundhred ginerals as full of sthrategy as yerself ’tisn’t here I’d be this blessed an’ holy night. What’s your name?” says he.

“Jimmy Murphy,” says the little man, puttin’ the kay to his mouth an’ blowin’ some crumbs of dirt out of it.

“I’ll not forget it,” says King James; an’ wud that he jumps off his horse an ties the reins to wan of the bars.

Then Jimmy went to the little wicket an began to feel for the kayhole in the darkness. “You’ll have to stoop here,” says he, “or you’ll knock the crown off your head.”

“Begor,” says King James, “’tis wudout a crown I am. I rode away in such a hurry that I clane forgot it, an’ I have no doubt the Orangemen have made a futball of it by this an’ kicked it into the Boyne water.”

“An’ is it from the Boyne you’re afther comin’?” axes Jimmy, humourin’ the kay in the lock.

“’Tis,” says King James. “I’m afther ridin’ at a full gallop straight from the battle of the Boyne.”

“An’ are you afther losing the battle?” axes Jimmy.

“I am, bad luck to it!” says King James.

“I’m sorry for your throuble,” says Jimmy, for although he wasn’t over partial to James the Second, still he couldn’t help feelin’ for him because of his belongin’ to the ould faith, an’ moreover bein’ a namesake.

“Well you’d best come through, anyhow,” says he, openin’ the little gate by main force, for the hinges wor mighty rusty.

“You ought to put a dhrop of sweet oil on them hinges,” says King James, settin’ his teeth an’ entherin’ on the bridge. “They’re in want of moisture,” says he, wud a laugh, “as much as my own throat, an’ that’s rusty enough this minute. Have you a taste of anything handy, Jimmy?”

“Well,” says the little man, “I think there’s a small dhrop of rum in a bottle in the toll-house—if that’s to your likin’.”

“Anything is in saison now,” says the King, smackin’ his lips, “though I’m partly a teetotaller.”

So Jimmy went into the toll-house and brought out a small black bottle an’ handed it to King James.

“I’ll go out an’ lade in the horse,” says he, “while you’re clearin’ the cobwebs out of your throat,” an’ sayin’ the words he went out to the horse, which was all covered wud foam an’ sweat, an’ he led the poor baste in by the big enthrance-gate. Then he closed the gate afther him, an’ King James walked over to the horse an’ handed Jimmy back his bottle.

“Good-bye now, Jimmy,” says the King, mountin’ into the saddle, “an’ I’ll laive it to yerself how to put King Billy’s sogers off the scent; an’ if ever I comes into my rights again I’ll make a mimber of Parlyment of you.”

“I’ll do my best, you may depind,” says Jimmy.

“Good-bye, again,” says King James, “for the best of frinds must part.”

“Stop a minute, my good man!” says Jimmy. “You’re forgettin’ something.”

“I know what you’re dhrivin’ at,” says King James, “but I haven’t got any small change about me.”

“Is it a bribe you think I wants?” says Jimmy, nearly losin’ his temper, for ’tis a proud little man in his way he was, though his wages worn’t very handsome. “Do you think,” says he, catchin’ a grip of the bridle, “that I’d soil my hands wud your dirty money except what was due to me in a way of business?”

“An’ what is it you requires?” axes King James.

“The toll,” says Jimmy, as short as you plaize.

“Is this a toll-bridge?” says King James.

“You know well it is,” says Jimmy.

“An’ what would you say, my fine man,” says King James, “if I wor to give your fist a smack of my swoord an’ gallop across the bridge?”

“I’d say you worn’t the first king that broke the law,” says Jimmy.

Begor, that answer staggered James the Second, an’ says he, “How much is the toll?”

“Sixpence ha’penny to you,” says Jimmy, “an’ a good riddance at the money.”

“How dar’ you spake like that, you bla’guard?” says the King, hotly.

“Oh don’t let us be argufyin’ or squabblin’,” says Jimmy, “or ’tis down atop of you King Billy’ll be.”

Faix, James the Second cooled down all of a sudden at the mention of King Billy, so he puts his hand in his throuser’s pocket and says he,—

“How do you make it sixpence ha’penny?—’tis a most onnathural charge!”

“Sixpence for the horse, an’ a ha’penny for the man,” says Jimmy. “That’s the rate by special Act of Parlyment.”

“I thought ye passed man an’ horse for sixpence,” says King James.

“So we do,” says Jimmy, “if the rider sticks to his saddle.”

“Well, I suppose there’s no use in hagglin’ about it,” says King James, “though I regard the ha’penny as extortion.”

“Divil a use of arguin’,” says Jimmy, “an’ I despises your slandhers.”

So the King hands over the sixpence ha’penny, copper by copper, as if he wor partin’ wud his life’s blood, for ’tis very near in his daylin’s he was.

“Maybe you’d like a resate for this,” says Jimmy, who was fairly disgusted wud the way the King grumbled an’ growled over a few ha’pence.

“You can send it afther me to France,” says James the Second, not seein’ it was humbuggin’ him Jimmy was, an’ wud that he dug his spurs into his horse an’ away he galloped over the bridge.

“Ah!” says Jimmy, lookin’ afther him as he rethrated, “’tis no wondher they call you ‘dirty Shamus’! However,” says he, “I’ve passed my word to put King Billy off the scent, an’ Jimmy Murphy never broke a promise to man or mortial.”

An’ puttin’ King James’s coppers into his pocket, Jimmy went back into the toll-house, an’ was soon fast asleep.

About four o’clock—broad daylight, of coorse—he was started out of a dhrame of himself sittin’ in Parlyment wud a crown on his head, by a tunderin’ rattle of horse hoofs; an’ goin’ out from the toll-house he saw a great sighth of horse-sogers, all dhressed in yellow clothes, pressin’ up to the gates.

“Open, quick!” cried a big man, wud a crown on the back of his poll, givin’ the bars a backhanded wipe of his swoord.

“What’s your business, if you plaize?” says Jimmy. “We don’t open here till six o’clock, unless on an emergency.”

“Do you know who I am?” says the big chap on the horse.

“I partly guess you’re King William the Orangeman,” says Jimmy.

“That’s a good guess,” says the horseman, “for that’s my name an’ occupation sure enough, an’ I give you my word it’s a rale case of emergency that brings me here. Tell me,” says he, “did James the Second pass through this gate this mornin’ or last night?”

“He did not,” says Jimmy.

“Maybe,” says King William, “he climbed over it.”

“No, nor undher it aither,” says Jimmy.

“Well, that puzzles me,” says King William, “for ’twas only at Kilmacow beyant we lost the scent of him, an’ I made sure ’twas for Watherford he was flyin’.”

“Perhaps,” says little Jimmy, “’tis to New Ross he went.”

“Perhaps,” says King William, “but I have my doubts of it. Are you sure he didn’t pass through this gate?”

“Sartin,” says Jimmy.

“Well then,” says King William, “he must aither have gone on to New Ross or swum across the river.”

“Wisha!” says Jimmy, fearin’ King James’s fat would be in the fire if the Orangemen tuk it into their heads to hunt for him in Watherford. “Wisha! how could an exhausted man swim three-quarthers of a mile in the cowld of the airly mornin’?”

“Maybe,” says King William, “he made a raft an’ crossed on it.”

“A raft!” says Jimmy. “I suppose you think he’s a descindant of Robinson Crusoe?”

“There’s no knowin’ what thricks he’d be up to,” says King Billy. “Anyhow, I have my notions that ’tis in the city of Watherford we’ll nab him; but to be on the safe side, I’ll divide my min.”

Begor, Jimmy feared it was all over with King James thin, an’ he was sore vexed to think that all his sthrategy had gone for nothing so far, an’ ’twas more aiger than ever he was now to put the sogers off the thrack.

“Come here, Rawhead!” says King William to a big lump of an Orange throoper. “Take a hundhred min wud you into the city, an’ I’ll go on to New Ross wud the rest. Search every public-house for him,” says he, “an’ every ship at the quay.”

Then King William blew a few blasts out of a silver-mounted bugle, an’ the min divided themselves into two lots.

“Now thin,” says he to Jimmy Murphy, “throw open the gates, an’ let Captain Rawhead an’ his throopers pass!”

“You must pay full toll, you know, before I puts a kay in the lock,” says Jimmy, thinkin’ that the big sum of money might frighten the Orangemen off.

“How much do you make it?” says King William.

“It’s sixpence a horse,” says Jimmy—“a heavy charge, but there’s a special Act of Parlyment for it.”

“That’s two pound ten,” says King William. “Will you take my note of hand for the amount?”

“I won’t,” says Jimmy, “for I’m not allowed to dale in anything but coin of the realm.”

“You can charge it agen the Naational Debt,” says King William. “I’m rather short of change at the moment.”

“That seems to be a general complaint,” says Jimmy.

“’Tis,” says King William. “Are you agreeable? I give you my word we charges everything agen the Naational Debt.”

“I’m only a sarvint,” says Jimmy, “an’ my ordhers are to take nothing but money, an’ good money too.”

“’Tis a rock of obstinacy you are,” says King William; “but I’ll thry what I can do” says he, for he was a perseverin’ man at any rate, an’ had his mind fixed on gettin’ his follyers through the gates at any sacrifice.

So he rode his horse about through the sogers, an’ between ’em all they made up the two pound ten, an’ King William passed the money through the bars of the gate into Jimmy’s fist.

Of coorse poor Jimmy hadn’t a word more to say then, so he tuk his kays out of his pocket, an’ wud a sore heart he opened the gates for Captain Rawhead an’ his hundhred min.

“At any rate,” says he to himself, “I’ve dodged King Billy about for a long spell, an’ if poor James the Second has any gumption in him he’ll be half-way down the river by the time the sogers gets into the city.”

Well, when King William had galloped away on the road to New Ross an’ Captain Rawhead had started to cross the bridge, poor Jimmy went back into the toll-house an’ fell fast asleep again. He was awoke this time by a man shoutin’ into his ear,—

“Jimmy! Jimmy, _avic_! get up!”

Little Jimmy started off the stretcher he was dozin’ on, an’ rubbed his eyes, an’ who did he see standin’ alongside him but an ould frind of his, Mick Gorman by name, that kept the “Royal Oak” in the city of Watherford!

“Good morra, Mick,” says Jimmy; “an’ what brings you here at this time of day?”

“Begor, wan ’ud think ’twas a dormouse you wor,” says Mick, “for ’tis bawlin’ at you I’ve been for the past five minutes, an’ every minute is worth its weight in goold now.”

“What time is it?” axes Jimmy, yawnin’.

“On the sthroke of five,” says Mick Gorman.

“Thin ’tis about an hour since the sogers went over the bridge. Did you see any Orangemen in the city?”

“Indeed an’ I did,” says Mick; “an’ ’tis by raison of that I’ve made such an airly visit to yerself.”

“Is that so?” says Jimmy.

“’Tis,” says Mick Gorman. “I must tell you,” says he, “how matthers stand, an’ then we’ll howld a council of war.”

“All right,” says Jimmy, “fire ahead, an I’ll keep listenin’.”

“Well,” says Mick, “about two hour ago I was woke out of bed by a double knock at the hall door, an’ puttin’ on my throwsers, I went downstairs an’ opened the premises. ‘I wants refreshment for man an’ baste,’ says a sthranger that was standin’ outside howldin’ a horse by the bridle. ‘Are you a bony fidy?’ says I. ‘I am,’ says he. ‘I’ve thravelled hundhreds of miles since I went to bed last.’ ‘All right,’ says I. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘I must ax you a queshthion first.’ ‘What’s that,’ says I. ‘Are you an Orangeman?’ says he. ‘Is it jokin’ you are?’ says I. ‘No,’ says he, ‘I’m in fair airnist.’ ‘Arrah! my good man,’ says I, ‘there was never wan of my breed or generation that ’ud have inthercourse wud an Orangeman except to take his money.’ ‘Very well,’ says the sthranger. ‘Thin I’ll tell you my name, if you’ll promise to keep it to yerself.’ ‘I’ll pass my word so far,’ says I. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘my name is King James the Second.’

“Begor, Jimmy,” says Mick Gorman, “I was sthruck all of a heap when I found ’twas the King of all England I was spaykin’ to, so says I, ‘If you’ll step into the parlour, Sir, I’ll attend to you meself as soon as I’ve put up the royal horse.’ So King James came in, an’ as soon as I’d given the horse a mash of bran and a few dabs of a wisp, I went into the parlour to the King. ‘I hope you’ll pardon me for keepin’ your Majesty standin’ at the door,’ says I. ‘Hush!’ says he. ‘Call me plain Misther Stuart, if you plaize, for no wan must know who I am at all. An’ if you’ll cook me a rasher an’ some eggs at wance I’ll feel obliged.’ So I makes off for the kitchen an’ got the fire lit an’ the rasher an’ the eggs cooked in a quarther of an hour, which is quick work I can tell you, Jimmy Murphy. Then I takes the male in to King James, an’ as soon as he had swallyed the grub he says: ‘Now I’m placin’ myself in your hands complately. I see you’re an honest man,’ says he.”

“How did he see that?” says Jimmy, intherruptin’ Mick.

“I suppose most kings is judges of characther,” says Mick Gorman.

“I hope he’s not a judge of noses,” says Jimmy, wud a grin; “for there’s ‘twenty per sint over proof’ marked on yours as plain as print.”

“Do you mane to insult me?” says Mick, lookin’ as black as a hearse-horse.

“Ah! it’s only my joke,” says Jimmy. “Sure there isn’t much to choose, from a gauger’s point of view, between your nose an’ my own.”

“Begor, I believe not,” says Mick Gorman, rubbin’ a brand new grog blossom on the left side of his nostril. “At any rate ’tis King James’s own words I’m afther tellin’ you, an’ you can believe me or not just as you like. ‘I see you’re an honest man,’ says the King of all England to me; ‘an’ the likes of you is as scarce as blackberries at this time of year. What I want you to do,’ says he, ‘is to get me aboord of a ship that’s sailin’ for France immajertly, an’ not to let a sowl know who I am. Can you do that?’ says he! ‘I think I can,’ says I, ‘for there’s a brother of mine the captain of a lugger, an’ he’ll be startin’ from the quay on the high wather.’ ‘When is that?’ says King James. ‘A thrifle before seven o’clock,’ says I. ‘That’ll do,’ says he, ‘an’ if you manages the job for me, I’ll make a Mimber of Parlyment of you when I comes into my rights again!’”

“Is that what he promised you?” says Jimmy.

“’Tis,” says Mick. “It’s his Majesty’s own words I’m tellin’ you. What makes you ax the queshtion?”

“Just for information,” says Jimmy—“but go on wud your story, Mick Gorman, M.P.”

“Well,” says Mick, “I tould King James I’d start for the quay at wance an’ make things right wud my brother Pat. So I put on my hat an’ I left the house. I walked up the quay a bit an’ what did I see but a whole parcel of Orange throopers comin’ through the gates of the bridge. They dhrew themselves up outside the gates, an’ I heard a big man that was at the head of ’em shout out: ‘Now boys, you know King William’s ordhers. Sarch every public-house for the vagabone an’ every ship at the quays.’ My heart went down into my boots at the words, for I knew who the ‘vagabone’ was. The big horse soger then shouts out again: ‘Now there are a hundhred of you here. Let fifty of you take the ships an’ fifty more the public-houses, an’ to save time, divide yourselves wance more into fives, for that’ll hasten matthers a dale. An’ to the fifty of ye that’s goin’ to sarch the ships, this is my ordhers: If ye don’t find him aboord any wan of ’em, line the ditches from top to bottom, an’ see that he doesn’t pass ye laither on!’”

“Line the ditches!” says Jimmy. “What did he mane by that?”

“I suppose he meant to line the quays,” says Mick Gorman; “but being an ignorant man that wasn’t brought up in a sayfarin’ place he thought a quay was a ditch.”

“Like enough,” says Jimmy. “What did you do then?”

“Begor,” says Mick, “I was nonplushed for a short spell, but I thought I’d best go aboord my brother’s lugger an’ arrange matthers there in case we could hit on a plan for smugglin’ King James aboord. So I walks aboord by the plank to my brother’s ship and roused him out of his bunk, and settled it all wud him about Misther Stuart in case we could pilot the cargo in safety through the town, an’ then I wint back to the ‘Royal Oak’ and towld everything to his Majesty.”