Chapter III: Part 3

“Poor man, he was mighty sorrowful to hear the news I had for him about the Orangemen. ‘What’ll I do at all at all?’ he axes me. ‘I thought I could depind my life on Jimmy Murphy.’ ‘Jimmy Murphy!’ says I—a dacenter man never broke bread.” ‘So I thought meself,’ says King James, an’ with that he towld me all about you, an’ of coorse I blew a horn for you. ‘Poor Jimmy,’ says I, ‘never went back of his word, I’ll go bail; an’ ’tis the clever little man he is too.’ ‘What’ll we do at all at all?’ says King James, wringin’ his hands. ‘Can’t you think of any plan to get me safe aboord your brother’s boat?’ ‘Worse luck,’ says I, ‘’tis a poor hand I am on an emergency like this. I’m fairly bet.’ ‘How long do you think ’twill be,’ says King James, ‘before the sogers will make their way here?’ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘there are at laiste thirty public-houses between this an’ the bridge, an’ ’tis like enough they’ll have a dhrop in aich house. It’s now about half-past four,’ says I. ‘I think we might safely calculate on them not gettin’ this far until about half-past six.’ ‘That’ll be just on the high wather,’ says King James. ‘I think the tide’ll run till seven,’ says I, ‘for my brother promised he wouldn’t take the stage off until the town clock sthruck seven.’ ‘I’ll tell you what you’ll do,’ says King James. ‘Run over as quick as you can to the other side of the bridge an’ send Jimmy Murphy here, for I have great confidence in the little man, an’ wud the help of goodness he’ll hit upon some plan to smuggle me through the sogers on the quay.’ ‘You’re right,’ says I to the King. ‘Jimmy is the man.’

“So that’s why you see me here now,” says Mick Gorman, fairly out of breath.

“Faix,” says Jimmy, “you’ve lost a dale of time as it is wud your rigmarole story; but no matther! I have a plan in my head already.”

“What is it?” axes Mick Gorman.

“That’s my business,” says Jimmy. “Now,” says he, “let you take charge of the bridge an’ open the big gate at six o’clock to the minute, an’ I’ll put my best fut forward for the ‘Royal Oak.’ Tell me, Mick,” says he, “does the big whisky puncheon stand in the middle of the shop still?”

“It does,” says Mick Gorman.

“How is it inside?” says Jimmy.

“There’s only about three gallon left in it.”

“_Only_ three gallon!” says Jimmy, smackin’ his lips. “But that’s not I meant at all. I want to know what sort of a thing the inside of this whisky puncheon is.”

“It’s made to howld a hundhred and twenty gallon inside, of coorse,” says Mick Gorman.

“A hundhred and twenty gallon of whisky!” says Jimmy, liftin’ his hands an’ lookin’ spacheless. “Glory be to goodness! Why ’twould keep a man in the horrors for a year at laiste.”

“That depends!” says Mick Gorman, laughin’ hearty. “But between yerself an’ meself, Jimmy,” says he, “’tisn’t all whisky, of coorse, we gives ’em, or ’twould play the mischief wud their livers.”

“I know,” says Jimmy. “Eighty gallon of sperits an’ forty gallon of boilin’ wather an’ sugar-o’-candy makes the best public-house whisky, I’m tould.”

“Begor, wan ’ud think you wor in the public line all your life,” says Mick. “Who towld you we boiled the wather?”

“Sure it’s only naatural you would,” says Jimmy, “in ordher to melt the sugar-o’-candy. But you don’t seem to undherstand in the laiste what I mane about the big puncheon of yours. What I want to know is if there are any nails stickin’ out the ribs of it inside?”

“Nails stickin’ out!” says Mick. “’Tis aisy known now you worn’t born in the public business. Do you think ’tis like an empty sugar hogshead it is?”

“I didn’t think anything,” says Jimmy, a thrifle vexed. “I only axed for information.”

“Well,” says Mick Gorman, “the inside of it is as smooth as the barrel of a gun, if that’s what you’re dhrivin’ at.”

“That’ll do,” says Jimmy. “Now,” says he, “where do you keep your tool-chest?”

“You’ll find it undher the counther near the till,” says Mick. “The till is locked, of coorse.”

“I’ll remember that,” says Jimmy; an’ off he starts at a throt for the “Royal Oak,” leavin’ the landlord lookin’ afther him wud his mouth wide open like the slit of a post-office letther-box.

When he arrived at the “Royal Oak” he found King James sittin’ in the back parlour partly disthracted. Every noise the poor man heard he thought ’twas the Orangemen; but when his eyes fell on Jimmy Murphy he seemed greatly relieved in his mind.

“How was it at all, Jimmy,” says he, “that you let the vagabones through the gate?”

“There’s no use frettin’ over spilt milk,” says Jimmy. “The sogers are in the city, an’ the thing is to get you out of their grip, an’ not to be axin why I let ’em pass, isn’t it? Do you think I’m a match single-handed for a whole pack of dhragoons in full cry?”

“Of coorse not,” says King James. “Don’t heed my temper, Jimmy; for it’s in a bad state of mind altogether I am. Only save my life whatever you do, an’ I’ll not forget you when I come into my rights wance more.”

“I’ll do my best for you,” says Jimmy; “for I passed my word to you this mornin’—”

“An’ you wor never known to go back of your promise,” says King James, takin’ the words out of little Jimmy’s mouth.

“Never!” says Jimmy; “but there’s no time to be lost, blowin’ our own thrumpets.”

“I know that,” says King James; “an’ I’ll do anything you ordher me, Misther Murphy.”

“Very well,” says Jimmy. “Is there any wan up in the house yet?”

“Divil a wan,” says King James. “At laiste I didn’t hear a stir inside the house since Misther Gorman went out last.”

“’Tis the mischief to rouse servants in the mornin’,” says Jimmy; “but that’s all in our favour now. Come into the shop wud me an’ I’ll thry an’ thransmogrify you.”

“You won’t hurt me, I hope?” says King James, “for I was tendherly reared.”

“Naither hurt nor harm will come to you at my hands,” says Jimmy; “so thry and look a bit cheerful. Begor, ’twould frighten a horse from his oats if he saw what a long face you’re pullin’. Have heart, man! Have heart!”

“I will, Jimmy, I will,” says the King.

The pair of ’em then crossed the hall an’ went into the shop. There wor square holes cut in the top of aich shutther so there was a fair share of light in the shop.

“What’s that mystayrious bundle you have in your hands?” says King James to Jimmy, as they passed through the flap of the counther.

“A pair of pillows,” says Jimmy. “Haven’t you the sighth of your eyes?”

“Maybe ’tis goin’ to smother me you are,” says King James.

“Look here,” says Jimmy, “if you give me any annoyance wud foolish remarks like that I’ll throw up the job altogether. Do what I tell you and keep your tongue in your cheek, for time and tide waits for no man.”

“It’ll be high wather at seven,” says King James.

“Ay,” says Jimmy; “an’ for all the Kings in Europe it wouldn’t run a minute laither. Doesn’t that make you feel very small in yourself?”

“It does,” says King James.

“Well, sing small now an’ fetch me out a big tool-chest you’ll find undher the counther near the till,” says Jimmy. “I’m not puttin’ temptation in your road, for the till is double-locked.”

So the King did as he was towld, an’ Jimmy picked out a saw wud a taperin’ point, an’ mountin’ a high stool that stood alongside the big whisky puncheon he set to work. Bein’ a handy man it wasn’t long until he had sawn the lid off the puncheon. Then he threw the lid on the ground an’ jumped down afther it, King James gazin’ at him all the time as if he was in a dhrame.

“Hand me over that big copper measure there,” says he to King James, pointin’ to a three-gallon measure standin’ on the counther.

Of coorse the King did as he was towld, but he looked mighty onaisey, an’ says he, “What is it you’re up to at all, Misther Murphy?”

“I’ll tell you when I’m done,” says Jimmy; “but I can’t spake when I’m busy, so howld your whisht, if you plaize, James,” says he.

It tuk nearly ten minutes to dhraw off the whisky from the puncheon, an’ when the measure was full Jimmy turned to the King,—

“Now get up on the stool there and jump into the puncheon,” says he.

“Man alive!” says King James, “sure the fumes of it would knock me off my head complately.”

“Betther be knocked off your head than have your head knocked off,” says Jimmy. “Do what I tell you at wance if you have sense. Come look alive, James the Second,” says he, “or I won’t be answerable for the consequences.”

So the King never said a word, but mounted the stool and scrambled into the puncheon.

“It’s just about your height, isn’t it?” says Jimmy, workin’ away wud an auger on the lid of the puncheon.

“’Tis,” says King James, standin’ on his tip toes an’ lookin’ over the top the same as a cow peepin’ over a fence.

“Now,” says Jimmy, “make yourself comfortable about the head with these pillows, an’ you’ll be aboord ship in due time. I’m afther borin’ a lot of air-holes in the head of the puncheon so that you’ll be able to have plenty fresh air on the journey.”

An’ sayin’ the words Jimmy got up on the stool an’ dhragged the lid of the puncheon up wud him. He was a sthrong little man for his build, but it tuke a few heavy sighs out of him before he could fix the lid in its place.

“Mind your sconce now,” says he to King James; “for I’m going to hammer over your head.”

“Oh murdher!” says the King. “Did any one ever hear of the likes of this? ’Tis choke I will between want of air an’ the smell of the whisky.”

“’Tis thankful to Heaven you ought to be to have the chance of gettin’ dhrunk so chape,” says Jimmy.

“How do you feel when you’re gettin’ drunk?” says the King, his voice soundin’ very hollow from the puncheon.

“Grand!” says Jimmy. “Grand intirely; but gettin’ sober is the mischiefs own job.”

“I can’t hear you wud the noise of your hammer,” says the King, for Jimmy was hard at work fixin’ the lid nately in its place wud some nails.

“Howld your tongue!” says Jimmy. “I think I hear the thramp of horse-sogers in the sthreet outside. Now wan last word to you,” says the little man. “Whatever happens, or whatever inconvaynience you feel, don’t let there be a whimper out of you. ’Tis like enough you’ll soon be dead dhrunk an’ then you won’t feel any onaisiness until you’re gettin’ betther, but if you makes the slightest noise ’tis all up wud you. Good-bye now, James, an’ mind, not a stir or a word out of you!”

Just as Jimmy was done spaykin’, there was a thundherin’ knock at the hall door. “Bad scran to it!” says he, “they’ll be atop of us before the job is finished.” So he whips a lump of chalk out of his pocket, an’ he prents in big letthers on the puncheon,

“PICKLED PORK FOR SHIP’S USE ONLY.”

Then he runs out to the door an’ opens it, rubbin’ his eyes as if he was just afther gettin’ out of bed.

There wor five men at the door, aich of ’em howldin’ a horse by the bridle, an’ Jimmy soon saw they wor about three parts screwed.

“What can I do for ye, gentlemen?” says he, bowin’ very politely.

“Is there any sthrangers lodgin’ in the house?” axes wan of the sogers that had a sthripe on the sleeve of his jacket.

“None _lodgin’_ here, worse luck!” says Jimmy. “Business is shockin’ bad. But won’t you step inside, sargeant?” says he. “Who is it you’re lookin’ for?”

“James the Second,” says the sargeant.

“Murdher!” says Jimmy. “Is he in these parts?”

“We’re towld so,” says the sargeant, steppin’ into the hall; “an’ me an’ my min is searchin’ the public-houses for him.”

“Dhry work, I’m sure,” says Jimmy, grinnin’ to himself.

“’Tis,” says the sargeant, though, poor man ’twas as much as he could do to stand study on his legs. “Do you keep a good dhrop here? I’m sick an’ tired of this wild-goose chase, an’ I’ll take your word for it that King James isn’t here, if the dhrink’s to my likin’.”

“Don’t take my word for anything,” says Jimmy; “but obey ordhers, an’ search the premises. Call in your men now an’ let ’em prod the beds an’ look up the chimbleys an’ down into the cellars, for I wouldn’t have it said that any man disobeyed ordhers on my account in this house.”

The fact of it was poor Jimmy was afeard to tell a downright lie, an’ of coorse he knew they’d never think of lookin’ for a King in a whisky puncheon.

Well, the sargeant called in two of his min an’ towld ’em to search the house from top to bottom, an’ when the min had started to go down into the cellar Jimmy took the sargeant into the shop an’ says he,—

“Do you see that three-gallon measure of malt there?” pointin’ to the copper standin’ on the flure near the big puncheon. “I’ll make yourself an’ your comrades a present of it if you does me a bit of a favour. Take a sniff of it before you makes up your mind,” says Jimmy, dhrawin’ the poor man to the measure just like the sarpint drew Eve to the apple-three.

“Great stuff intirely!” says the sargeant, suckin’ in his stomachful of the fumes. “I’ll do anything in raison for three gallon of that. What is it you want?”

“Well, you see that big cask of salt pork there?” puttin’ his hand agen the side of the puncheon. “I’ve sowld it to the captain of a little ship, an’ he sent me up word last night that it should be aboord before seven o’clock this mornin’. It’s just twenty minutes to the hour now, an’ I clane forgot last night to give ordhers about the cask, an’ all I wants your min to do is to take it down to the little ship for me. Is it a bargain?”

“It is,” says the sargeant. “Let us wet the conthract this minute.”

So Jimmy dipped a tumbler into the measure an’ passed it to the sargeant, who swallowed it as if it wor so much wather he was pourin’ down his throat.

Just as he was dhrainin’ the last dhrop in comes the sogers to the shop, an’ of course they had to confess they couldn’t find King James on the premises. The sargeant tould ’em of his bargain wud Jimmy, an’ ’twas right glad they wor when they heard of it; an’ they all sampled the stuff wud as much aise as the sargeant.

“Now,” says Jimmy, “we must lower the cask on to this little throlly here; an’ go to work gently, boys, or maybe some of the brine would find its way through the pores of the puncheon, an’ you’d have the captain of the vessel dockin’ me for short delivery.”

Well, the four men got the cask safely mounted on the little throlly an’ Jimmy opened the shop door.

“Here,” says he, “let wan of you stand at aich side of the cask to study it, an’ two more of you take howld of the rope.”

“I’ll tell you a betther an’ a quicker way,” says the sargeant. “Two of us can stand at aich side of the barrel an’ we’ll harness four horses on to the throlly. The other two men can remain here to keep shop for you, Misther Landlord, an’ we’ll be at the ship an’ back again for the three gallons before the clock will sthrike seven.”

“A great idaya!” says Jimmy, “an’ I’ll lock up the whisky while ye’re harnessin’ the horses.”

It was about a quarther to seven when they started from the “Royal Oak,” an’ in less than five minutes they were gallopin’ along the quay in grand style, until Jimmy cried “Halt!” as they came abreast of Pat Gorman’s lugger.

The fifty horse-sogers were by this time linein’ the quays, an’ wan of ’em had planted himself just outside Pat Gorman’s craft.

“Make way there for pickled pork!” shouted the sargeant, as the throlly dhrew up alongside the sentinel.

“Aisy a bit!” says the sentinel. “We have ordhers to examine everything that comes aboord.”

“This is only pork, man,” says the sargeant. “I’m afther examinin’ it meself;” for ’tis in dhread he was of any delay that would keep him from hurryin’ back to the three-gallon measure.

“In that case,” says the sentinel, “we’ll pass it along, sargeant; an’ what’s the manein’ of your convartin’ yourself into a thransport?”

“I’d think you’d best promise him a share of the whisky,” whispers Jimmy to the sargeant; “for ’tis a dacent man he is not to be delayin’ us wud the usual red-tape regulations.”

“All right,” says the sargeant “I’m agreeable.” An’ then he towld the sentinel all about the bargain he sthruck wid Jimmy Murphy.

“Here’s a sample of the stuff,” says Jimmy, offerin’ a flask of it to the sentinel. “An’ now, boys,” says he, turning to the sogers that wor on fut, “unload the pork and rowl the barrel aboord by the stage, for ’tis as near high wather as it well can be.”

Poor James the Second was in a dead sleep by this time, as Jimmy partly guessed he would be, so the unloadin’ of the cask from the throlly and the rowlin’ of it aboord the ship didn’t inconvaynience him in the laiste.

Of coorse Jimmy went aboord an’ whispered a few words on the quiet into Pat Gorman’s ears, an’ when the cask was safe an’ snug on the ship’s deck he shuk the skipper by the hand, an’ says he,—

“Don’t broach the pork until ye’re outside the harbour, for ’tis a tendher piece of mate.”

Thin, Jimmy and the sogers walked ashore and in no time the stage was taken off the lugger; an’ as the town clock was sthrikin’ seven Pat Gorman’s ship started out into the sthrame an’ was soon out of sighth behind Crummle’s Rock.

An’, wudout a word of a lie, that’s the way poor James the Second escaped from Watherford to France.

It was a fine spring mornin’, an’ Saint Pathrick, when he saw the first sighth of the sun peepin’ in through the blinds of his windy, thought he’d tumble at wance out of bed an’ have a gallop across counthry to settle his stomach before breakfast.

He was afther puttin’ a hard night of it over him, an’ he didn’t feel very comfortable in himself, so he just poured a jug of cowld wather over his head an’ gave himself a few dabs of a towel and downstairs he crept, of coorse after fixin’ on his clothes.

He was on a visit this time in the County Limerick wud a neighbour of his, another Saint, but wan that couldn’t howld a candle to Saint Pathrick in discoorsin’, or card-playin’; an’ as he knew his frind was a light sleeper an’ a late riser he made as little noise as he could gettin’ out of the house. He just took a top hat off of a big nail in the hall, an’ goin’ round to the stable he bitted his horse an’ fixed him for the ride wud his own two fists, an’ then he jumped into the saddle as active as a circus man.

On he rode, anyhow, thinkin’ hard to himself what more good he could do in the ould counthry.

“I’m afther convartin’ all the kings an’ the princes an’ such like,” says he to himself; “an’ betther than that,” says he, “I’m afther banishin’ every sarpint an’ other varmint clane out of the land. I left ’em the fox, of coorse, for ’tis a fine huntin’ people they are, an’ all pray and no play makes Pat a dull boy; but I flatther myself that afther the curse I read agen the reptiles there isn’t as much as a toad ’ud dar’ to show his snout on Irish soil. ’Tis a great man intirely I am!” says he, diggin’ the spurs into the horse; an’ sure there was small blame to him to be proud of himself.

Well, the words wor scarcely out of his mouth whin he lifted his head to have a look at the sky; an’ begor, the screech he let out of him frightened the poor animal he was ridin’ into a canther.

“Be good to me!” says he, “but ’tis snakes, I see.”

Naaturally he felt ’twould play the mischief wud him if it ever came to be heard he was in such a desperate condition, an’ cursin’ the hard livin’ he had been enjoyin’ wud the other Saint, he was about turnin’ tail an’ throttin’ home in despair when he felt his own horse thremblin’ all over like a jelly-fish.

“Maybe, afther all,” says Saint Pathrick to himself, “it’s a raal live dhragon I sees on the horizon, sent to me as a punishment for my pride.”

So he lifts his head wance more, an’ studys himself in the saddle, an’ puttin’ wan hand over his brows, he mutthers,—

“Oh begor, there’s no mistake about it! ’Tis a rale dhragon, sure enough, an’ a cunnin’ ould rascal too if I’m any judge of the likes of him. That fellow is three hundred year ould at the very laiste, an’ where the mischief he could have been hidin’ is a fair puzzle to me. No matther,” says he, “I’ll prayche a sarmon agen him that’ll dhraw all the venom out of him or I’ll know for what. Get along now, good horse,” says he, “an’ let us see what we can do for this play-acthor.”

So the Saint rides on a few hundhred yards until he gets within hailin’ distance of the dhragon, purtendin’ all the time he hadn’t persayved him.

As soon as the dhragon, who was about six hundhred feet from the tip of his snout to the end of his tail, sees the man on horseback, he gives a chuckle to himself, and says he,—

“Begor, it never rains but it pours! I haven’t had a male ashore for nearly a twelvemonth, on account of that cursed Saint Pathrick, an’ here on my first mornin’s journey I comes across a man an’ horse almost at daybreak. There’s a dale of bone about the baste,” says he; “but we mustn’t look gift horses in the ribs.” An’ wud that he bursts out laughin’ an’ sends a blast of fire out of his mouth right in the direction of Saint Pathrick. “That’ll give him pepper,” says he, dhrawin’ in his breath.

“Phew!” says Saint Pathrick, addhressin’ his horse. “That’s the game, is it? Well, I’ve often heard tell of blowin’ a kiss to a party by way of good morra, but fire an’ sulphur is a new sort of a way of axin’ a man how-do-you-do. Never mind his blasts, ould horse,” says he, pattin’ the animal on the neck; “I’ve said the prayers agen dhragons already, an’ naither hurt nor harm can come to us.”

The horse gave a neigh out of him just as much as to say, “I quite understands you,” an’ on Saint Pathrick throts until he gets right abreast of the varmint.

“Good morra, good man,” says the dhragon, complately at a loss to undherstand how it was that the blasts of fire an’ smoke he was sendin’ out of him didn’t seem to throuble the sthranger. “It’s a mighty sthrong stomach you must have to howld out agen the sulphur fumes.”

“Sulphur, is it!” says Saint Pathrick. “Sure, I partly lives on it. I takes it with thraycle every mornin’, an’ fine wholesome stuff it is.”

“Bad luck to it!” says the dhragon, feelin’ a bit nonplushed, “I suppose that’s wan of the new dodges this divil of a Saint Pathrick is afther taychin’ the people of this misfortunate counthry.”

Of coorse Saint Pathrick knew for sartin then that the dhragon didn’t recognize him, so he made up his mind to have a bit of a play wud him before banishin’ him intirely.

“An’ where have you been,” says he, “that you didn’t hear of the new rules an’ regulations about craychurs of your kind?”

“What’s that to you?” says the dhragon, who had no intintion of lettin’ anybody know where his hidin’ hole was.

“You might keep a civil tongue in your head, anyhow,” says Saint Pathrick. “Civility is chape, an’, if you’ll be said by me, you’ll thry to save those fumes of fire an’ sulphur that you’re spittin’ out there for some betther land, for no more on Irish soil have you the laiste chance of harmin’ a son or a daughther of Erin. That’s wan of the new rules and regulations, Misther Dhragon,” says Saint Pathrick, nearly out of breath afther the long spayche.

“Mighty fine bounce intirely!” says the dhragon. “Wan ’ud think ’twas Saint Pathrick himself you wor by the darin’ manner you have. An’ now,” says he, “as I haven’t much time to spare I must only just make wan male of the pair of yez. I’m sorry I can’t make two coorses of ye, but I’m in no end of a hurry an’ as hungry as a Friar on Ash Wednesday.”

Wud that the dhragon opened his mouth so wide that you cud see about two or three hundred feet of his inside, an’ the two fangs he had at aich corner of his jaw stud up like a pair of telegraph poles.

Saint Pathrick got a bit of a turn at the sighth, for this was the biggest dhragon he’d ever seen in all his thravels, but he just said a short prayer, an’ begor, there was the dhragon fixed to the spot wud his mouth wide open just like the enthrance of a cave.

“That’s what we calls lockjaw,” says Saint Pathrick, wud a hearty laugh. “I hopes you enjoy it. That’s another of the new rules and regulations, my sweet fellow. Now maybe you’d keep a civil tongue in your head if I gev you the chance again, an’ talk less of breakin’ yer fast off meself an’ the horse.”

There was an implorin’ look in the dhragon’s eye just as much as to say, “Sure you know I have no chance agen you, an’ of coorse I’ll be civil-spoken if you gives me wan more opportunity.” An’ Saint Pathrick seein’ this said another prayer, an’ down dropped the baste’s jaws wud a snap as loud as the burstin’ of a cannon-piece.

“O murdher!” says the dhragon, wud a sigh out of him like half a gale of win’; “but that’s the mischief’s own rule an’ regulation. An’ what may your name be, your honour?” says he.

“Well, as you axes a civil questhion,” says the Saint, “I’ll give you a civil answer. My name is Saint Pathrick.”

“Saint Pathrick!” shouted the dhragon. “Oh what cursed luck druv’ you in my road this mornin’?”

“Take care of yer langwidge, now,” says Saint Pathrick, “or maybe I’d give you a taste of another new rule an’ regulation. An’ now that we undherstands aich other, might I ax you how dar’ you remain in the counthry afther my ordhers that all the varmint wor to be banished?”

“I’m no varmint,” says the dhragon, pluckin’ up courage again; “an’ whether I am or not I have a laygal right to remain in the land of my forefathers.”

“Arrah whisht!” says Saint Pathrick, “an’ don’t be thryin’ to rise my timper. Of coorse you’re varmint, an’ bad varmint too.”

“You wrong me there,” says the dhragon, “for I’m a descindant of an ould anshent king, an’ ’twas by witchcraft I was changed at nurse.”

Of coorse the dhragon knew right well that himself an’ all his family for generations wor the dirtiest set of bla’guard dhragons that ever blasted a counthry, but he thought he’d work on the Saint’s feelin’s by tellin’ him the yarn about his bein’ an’ Irish prince that was changed at nurse.

“Show me your certificate of baptism,” says Saint Pathrick, “an’ I’ll believe you, but not before.”

“I left it at home on the dhresser,” says the dhragon, in a thremblin’ voice.

“Well, I don’t mind ridin’ wud you to see if it’s the thruth you’re tellin’ me; but mark you,” says Saint Pathrick, “if it’s bringin’ me on a wild goose chase you are, I’ll thransmogrify you into a laughing jackass an’ ordher you to the sayside for the little boys an’ girls to ride about on in the summer time; an’ a sayside donkey you’ll remain until the Day of Judgment, like the wandherin’ Jew.”

“Oh murdher!” says the dhragon. “Sure ’twould be better go to the knacker’s at wance than that, an’ to tell you the thruth—for I see there’s no use in thryin’ to desayve you—I lost the paper hundhreds of years ago, but take my word for it, blessed Saint Pathrick, I’m not a dhragon by breed at all.”

“Prove it, as I said before,” says the Saint, “an’ I’ll see what’s to be done for you.”

Of coorse the dhragon knew he couldn’t prove the lie, an’ he bethought him he’d thry and palaver the Saint a bit, so says he,—

“I know you’re afther doin’ a dale of good for the counthry, for between ourselves most of the varmint here wor a dirty lot, an’ ’twas right glad I was to hear your own sweet self had made a clane sweep of ’em. I was thinkin’ often, many centuries back, of turnin’ informer agen the whole thribe of ’em, an’ only I got a bad touch of rheumatics about twenty-five year ago, which kept me on the bed ever since, I’d have been the first to give your own self a welcome in these parts.”

An’ then clearin’ his throat he began to sing out in a voice like a second-hand foghorn, “The dear little Shamrock.”

Begor, Saint Pathrick got such a fit of laughin’ at the dhragon’s way of singin’ a song that he nearly fell off his horse.

“’Tis the divil’s playboy you are,” says he. “Tell me,” says he, “fair an’ honest, are you afther comin’ straight from the County Cork?”

“I am,” says the dhragon, turnin’ the colour of mouldy cheese. “An’ how the mischief do you know that?”

“I know mostly everything,” says the Saint.

“So it seems,” says the dhragon, lookin’ more on aisey than ever. “What you don’t know, Pathrick,” says he, thryin’ to humour the dacent man, “isn’t worth larnin’ or I’m no judge of characther.”

“There you’re wrong,” says Saint Pathrick. “However, I’m purty sartin on wan point and that is that your afther kissin’ the Blarney Stone.”

“Well, don’t be talkin’,” says the dhragon, “but the knowledge that’s in you is enough to make me blush to the roots of my tail wud envy.”

“It’s thrue, isn’t it?” says the Saint.

“’Tis,” says the dhragon. “Just as I was abreast of Spike Island it sthruck me I’d venture inland an’ have a look at the sighths, for ’tis often I heard tell of the vartues of the Blarney Stone.”

All this time Saint Pathrick was dyin’ of curiosity to know where the mischief this dhragon was while he was deliverin’ the curse which banished the reptiles, but of coorse he didn’t like to let on to a dhragon that he was ignorant of anything. The remark about Spike Island gev him a kind of a sort of an idaya, an’ says he,—

“’Tis fond of a swim you are, Misther Dhragon.”

“You’re right there,” says the dhragon; “but how the mischief you knows all about my feelin’s an’ habits is a hardher puzzle to me every minute.”

“I towld you there wor some things I didn’t know,” says Saint Pathrick, who was never ashamed of tellin’ the thruth; “an’ if you’ll enlighten me on a few points, fair an’ honest, mind you, I’ll make an honourable thratey wud you.”

“It’s a bargain,” says the dhragon, nearly ready to jump out of his scales at the notion of makin’ an honourable thratey wud the great persecuthor of the dhragon thribe. “I’ll tell you anything you axes, wudout a word of a lie, if you passes your promise to spare my life, for as dhragons go I’m only in the prime of manhood.”

“All right,” says Saint Pathrick. “I’ll tell you the terms of the thratey when you answers my queshtions, but mind that ’tis the thruth you tell me, for ’tis the divil’s own liar you are.”

“Fire away,” says the dhragon, “an’ I’ll answer you sthraight, for I know ’tis useless to thry an’ bamboozle a larned saint like yerself.”

“Where wor you the day I banished all the varmint from this counthry?”

“Well, to the best of my belief,” says the dhragon, “I was hove-to in a fog that day off the banks of Newfoundland. You see, not like the other dhragons you sent to kingdom-come, I had always a great taste for the wather, an’ when I was quite a youngsther I larned how to swim an’ dive. Now when I heard that your own self was goin’ to desthroy the breed, I made wan jump into the Atlantic off Cape Clear, an’ sthruck out for the westhern ocean; an’ that’s how I got out of yer reverence’s clutches.”

“That explains it, of coorse,” says Saint Pathrick. “Now tell me,” says he, “how many more of ye is there in this vale of tears, so far as yer knowledge goes?”

“Divil a wan more but meself,” says the dhragon; an’, begor, the tears came rowlin’ down the poor baste’s cheeks as he said the words. “I’m the last of the dhragons, worse luck!”

“The last of ’em!” says Saint Pathrick, fairly delighted to hear such good news.

“Ay, indeed,” says the dhragon. “Of late the breed has been havin’ a hard time of it. Saint George, over in England beyant, desthroyed all my relations there, except wan eldherly faymale cousin by the mother’s side.”

“An’ what became of her?” axes Saint Pathrick.

“As misfortune should have it,” says the dhragon, “the poor craychur emigrated over here on a raft, an’ never bein’ at say before she got so mortial sick that by the time I got to her side she was heavin’ the last gasp.”

“An’ have you no family at all at all?” axes Saint Pathrick.

“Naither chick nor child,” says the dhragon. “In my airly youth I was rather gay, an’ could never knuckle down to mathrimony. Of coorse, if I had the laiste suspicion yerself was comin’ over here, I’d have settled down beforehand, an’ brought up a family whom I’d take care would larn how to swim an’ dive. But yer reverence took the win’ out of my sails complately, an’ as I’ve said before, I’m the last of the dhragons.”

Begor, the poor baste quite broke down as he towld his story to Saint Pathrick, an’ to tell the thruth, though he was mighty glad to know there was an end to the breed of dhragons for ever an’ ever, the great Saint couldn’t help feelin’ for the poor _angashore_.

“Look here,” says he, afther wipin’ a tear out of his eye, for ’tis a rale tindher-hearted Saint he was, “I won’t be very hard on you. The terms of the thratey will be that you take your hook straight to the Shannon, an’ do no damage on the road to man or mortial, an’ I’ll allow you to live the remainder of your naatural life in the salt ocean, where you’ll be known to future generations as the great Say-Sarpint. But if ever you shoves yer snout on dhry land the thratey will be broke, an’ you’ll die of the lockjaw. I gave you a taste of what that means a while back.”

“It’s a bargain,” says the dhragon, glad of any thratey that would save his life. “But raley you might sthretch a point for me—a poor misforthunate exile.”

“What is it?” says Saint Pathrick.

“Well, to tell the truth, I’m fairly famished wud the hunger. When I met your good self I was headin’ for that castle over beyant. There’s a fine, fat landlord lives there—he rides sixteen stone, I’m towld—and between yerself an’ meself ’twould be only a holy an’ a wholesome deed to make an end of the rack-rentin’ vagabone.”

“I can’t allow it,” says Saint Pathrick, “though indeed I agrees wud you that his room ’ud be betther than his company; but sure even if you swallyed him his sons ’ud only be glad to take up the runnin’.”

“Arrah, my dear man,” says the dhragon, “’tis swally sons an’ all I would, for I’m shrunk wud the hunger.”

Begor, ’twas a great temptation to Saint Pathrick, but he struv agen it an’ shuk his head.

“I can’t allow it, Misther Dhragon,” says he. “Sure you can have a fine male of salmon when you gets into the river—they’re as thick as flies there now an’ as fat as butther. Content yerself wud a snack of salmon if you’ll be said by me. The best in the land wouldn’t turn up their noses at the fish in the Shannon.”

“Ah! but if yerself wor livin’ on fish as long as I have been, you’d give a dale for a change of diet. You’re mighty hard on me, Pathrick.”

“Hard on you, you scoundhrel!” says the Saint. “This is what comes of havin’ too much sintiment. It’s as like as not I’ll be hauled over the coals for makin’ a bargain at all wud a heretic, but as I’ve passed my word to you I won’t dhraw back, for I was never known yet to violate a thratey. Don’t let me hear another grumble out of you now, or ’tis lose my timper I will.”

Hunger an’ vexation wor beginnin’ to tell on the dhragon by this time, an’ he was startin’ to give a few ugly lashes wud his tail, but when he saw the dark look in Saint Pathrick’s face an’ knew there was no chance of gettin’ round him, he purtended he was only thryin’ to scratch his ear. But, of coorse, Saint Pathrick was up to the thricks and schames of dhragons, an’ says he in an angry voice,—

“How dar’ you show timper you bla’guard? Keep your ugly tail study, or I’ll stand up in the stirrups this minute an’ read the Curse of Crummle agen you.”

Begor, the bare mintion of the Curse of Crummle sent a cowld thrill through the whole six hundhred feet of the dhragon’s carcase, an’ in a thremblin’ tone he implored Saint Pathrick not to say the words. “Don’t, acorra,” says he. “Betther die of lockjaw at wance than have Crummle hove at me.”

“I thought I’d fix you, my bucko,” says Saint Pathrick. “Stir your stumps now, for I feel I’m gettin’ an appetite for breakfast meself, an’ I’m greatly in favour of regular livin’.”

“Well, I wish you as good an appetite as my own,” says the dhragon, “an’ I’ll be biddin’ you a last farewell.”

“Good-bye,” says Saint Pathrick. “An’ mind you keep your tail study on the road to the Shannon. You can scratch your ear,” says he, wud a laugh, “as soon as you get abreast of Scatthery Island.”

An’ that’s how the great Saint Pathrick got rid of the last of the dhragons.

When Crummle came to Munsther first he heard a dale of talk about a castle that was situated about half-way between Thramore an’ Bonmahon, an’ a head general of his made bowld enough wan day to tell him that the divil a bit of him ’ud ever be able for to take it.

Of coorse Crummle thought there was nothing above or below ground in Ireland he couldn’t take, an’ ’tis only laugh at the general he did.

“It’s dhramein’ you are,” says he. “Sure what could stand agen my cannon-balls? an’ ’tis lashin’s and layvin’s of ’em I have.”

“Maybe ’tis laugh at the wrong side of your mouth you will,” says the general, “when you claps your eye on this castle of the Poers”—for that was the name of the family that owned the buildin’ I’m spaykin’ of—“for ’tis the dickens’ own place altogether.”

“Arrah man!” says Crummle, “there’s nothing too hot or too heavy for me. Sure the world couldn’t stand agen me if I was only to let meself out.”

“Plaize yourself an’ you’ll plaize me,” says the general; “but, mind you, ’tis in airnist I am, an’ maybe you’ll be sorry by-an’-by that you didn’t give heed to me. The divil himself couldn’t take that castle, it’s my humble opinion.”

“Maybe ’tis in laygue wud the divil I am,” says Crummle, wud an onaisey grin on him.

“Maybe!” says the general. “But ’twill take yerself an’ ould Nick all yer time to grab their sthronghold from the Poers of Don Isle.”

“An’ what sort of a place is it all?” axes Crummle, surprised at the way his head general kept harpin’ on the same sthring. “Did you ever take a survey of it?”

“I did,” say the general, “through a sthrong nightglass, for nearer than that I didn’t like to venture.”

“Is that so?” says Crummle, beginnin’ to be throubled in himself, for he knew this same general was a darin’ bla’guard. “What is it like at all?”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” says the general. “It’s built near the say-coast on the top of a big square lump of solid rock that rises like the side of a house nearly two hundhred feet from the ground on all sides.”

“Oh murdher!” says Crummle; “but that’s the mischief’s own sort of a place to build a castle! How big is it in diminsions?”

“I couldn’t take the measurement of it by algebra,” says the general; “but it’s wan of the biggest in Munsther, an’ the portholes in it are as plenty as peelers in a proclaimed disthrict.”

“’Tis surprisin’ how these bla’guard Irish thries to defy me!” says Crummle. “Have you any idaya as to the number of hands they keeps inside?”

“There’s a sthreet-full of people in it, I’m towld,” says the general. “They looked like a swarm of flies through the spyglass, anyhow.”

“An’ are they well armed?” axes Crummle.

“Armed, is it?” says the general. “Begor, aich of ’em is a walkin’ man-o’-war.”

“An’ what sort of a chap is the owner of this monsthrosity of a castle?” axes Crummle.

“A chap!” says the general. “Sure ’tis a faymale that owns the place.”

“Bad luck to yer impudence!” says Crummle. “Do you think I’m not a match for a faymale, or a whole ridgement of faymales, for the matther of that? The idaya,” says he, “of tellin’ me to my face that a slip of a girl could howld out agen me is nothing short of high thraison. For two pins I’d thrate you like I thrated Charlie the First.”

“Oh, you needn’t lose your timper!” says the general, “for the Countess of Don Isle is a match single-handed for a sthriker to a blacksmith. You should see the arm she have!”

“An’ do you think I’m only as good as a sthriker to a blacksmith?” says Crummle. “Look here, general,” says he, “’tis a fair coward you are!”

“Coward!” says the general. “Did you ever hear me say before that I wasn’t able to knock the daylight out of any woman in these parts? Arrah man!” says he, “this is a faymale giant, or you wouldn’t hear me singin’ small. ’Tis onnathural she is altogether, I tell you.”

“Maybe you have designs on her,” says Crummle, “an’ are aiger to protect her.”

“No more than yerself,” says the general. “All the designs I have on her are to knock herself an’ her castle into smithereens, an’ yerself bein’ the great Protecthor couldn’t have any betther designs than that.”

Begor, Crummle laughed at that, an’ says he, “I’ll christen you ‘Protecthor of faymales’ if you don’t take this castle.”

“All right,” says the general. “Of coorse I’ll do my best, but I hope we’ll see yerself to the fore in the fight, for the poor craychurs in these parts thinks ’tis the divil himself you are, an’ that gives us a great pull on ’em, glory be to heaven!”

“Depind on me,” says Crummle. “I’ll make the first offer at this faymale, and if we don’t grab the castle from her between us, I’ll send in my resignation to the Long Parlyment.”

Well, the next mornin’ Crummle rides off by himself in the direction of Thramore, an’ after a hard hour’s gallop he gets within sight of Don Isle. He pulls up his horse an’ takin’ a telescope from the tail pocket of his coat he has a spy at the castle.

“Begor,” says he to himself, “the general is right, sure enough! The dickens ever I’ll take that place except by a sthrategy. I must have a day an’ a night to think over this job,” says he, “or maybe ’tis get into disgrace I will.”

So he turns the horse’s head, an’ back he rides to the bog of Kilbarry, where his camp was pitched.

He sent at wance for the head general, an’ says to him,—

“Faix, ’tis right you are! This Don Isle is the mischiefs own place. ’Tis bad enough to be sthrugglin’ agen the Irish, but when you have to sthruggle agen natur’ too, ’tis the dickens own job altogether. No matther, general,” says Crummle, partin’ him on the showlder, “we have hapes of men, money, and gunpowdher, and those three ingraydients go a long way. Blow a blast out of your bugle now, an’ I’ll sing out my insthructions.”

So the general blew his bugle, an’ the sogers assembled at the call, and Crummle standin’ up on the top of a travellin’-thrunk addhressed ’em:—

“God save you, boys!” says he. “I’ve summoned ye from your tints to make a few remarks. At midnight to-morrow we’ll start out of this an’ skirt the town of Thramore, a thrifle to the nor’a’d. Then we’ll sthrike down by the village of Fennor, an’ I’ll encamp ye there, for I find there’s some good shebeens in the neighbourhood. At daybreak I’ll start out alone for Don Isle, an’ if I can’t put the comether on the owners of the castle, I’ll ride back an’ ax ye as honourable men to make wan _hurrish_ at it an’ take it by storm. It’s only a faymale that keeps the castle, an’ as far as my own survey this mornin’ goes, I can tell ye all that there’s hapes of women and children inside the walls—so let the watchword be, ‘Remember Wexford!’”

Begor, a shout went up from the sogers at these words that you’d hear from Mizzen Head to Cape Clear, an’ Crummle wud a wave of his hand dismissed the throops an’ got off the travellin’-thrunk.

All day he spent in his own tint thinkin’ over plans for comin’ round the Countess of Don Isle; but he couldn’t hit on anything that plaized him properly.

“I’ll have a sleep over it,” says he to himself, “an maybe an idaya’ll come to me like it came to my friend Richard the Third in his dhrames.”

* * * * *

Ever since the time she heard Crummle was prowlin’ about the neighbourhood, the Countess of Don Isle kept a sharp look-out for him, though ’twas little consarn she felt for him or his sogers, knowin’ they never cud take the castle from her unless by her own consint.

’Tis a fine iligant woman she was, measurin’ about six fut in her vamps, an’ she had the right sperit in her, only on wan point, an’ ’twas on this very point, though little she thought so, the great wakeness in her armour was,—but we’ll come to that part of the story in due coorse.

Lady Catherine—I believe I towld you that was the name of the Countess—had no end of confidence in her head-gunner, Mike Morrissey; an’ ’tis raison she had to be proud of him! He stud nearly six foot an’ a half in his stockin’ feet, an’ he didn’t know what it was to be second best in anything undher the sun. There wasn’t a man in the counthry could shoot, fish, ride, or swim wud Mike or stand up agen him at a game of “forty-five,” or in a row, or a hurlin’ match; but for all that he wasn’t a quarrelsome or a conthrarey man at all, so long as he wasn’t dhruv too hard, for of coorse he had his feelin’s.

Himself an’ the Countess wor great frinds intirely, except on the wan point, an’, as I’ve said afore, it was because of this wakeness in her characther that she was laiste sthrong where she expected she was most sthrong.

Now, Lady Catherine, wud all her vartues, was a rank teetotaller; an’ Mike Morrissey was fond of a dhrop. He was never seen to take too much—an’ indeed ’twould be a power of the hard stuff that ’ud knock Mike off his head—but he liked his liquor in raison. Lady Catherine was always thryin’ to get him to sign the pledge, but she couldn’t come round him at all.

“I’d do anything for your ladyship,” Mike used often say to her of an evenin’ when she’d be sittin’ on the sofy afther taytime. “I’d fight for you wud the last dhrop of my blood; but a good glass of John Jameson now and again, and an odd pint of Guinness’s porther is as necessary to my constitution as a cup of sthrong tay is to yours, ma’am. I can walk six Irish mile an hour wud aise, an’ I’ll go bail if I was to take the pledge I’d break down at four mile inside of a week.”

Afther a time the Lady Catherine saw there was no use in thryin’ to convart Mike to her views, an’ she gev it up for a bad job; but it made her all the hardher with the other sarvants an’ follyers in the castle. She sent the butler off wud a month’s wages in place of warnin’, an’ she locked up the kays of the cellar in a chest in her own bedroom; an’ by degrees she got all the folk inside the castle grounds to take the pledge.

Mike was sore vexed at the way the Countess was actin’, but he didn’t say much, an’ whenever he felt dhry he used to take a turn outside the walls an’ spend a while in the nearest shebeen; but of coorse it disthressed him that he used to have to walk so far for his dhrop instead of havin’ it handy, as in the ould times, on the kitchen dhresser.

Well, the evenin’ of the day that Crummle addhressed his sogers at Kilbarry, Lady Catherine sent for Mike Morrissey to come to her private apartments.

“I hear, Mike,” says she, “that this bla’guard Crummle is on the march to Don Isle.”

“I partly guessed as much,” says Mike; “for when I was out havin’ a pint to-day I was towld that a sthrange horseman was seen on the horizon this mornin’, takin’ a survey of the castle through a spyglass.”

“Is that so?” says the Countess.

“’Tis,” says Mike.

“Then I hopes you’re gettin’ things snug for the visithors,” says her ladyship.

“I am,” says Mike. “I’ll give ’em sugar in their tay, you may be sure. I’ve been hard at it all day, an’ I’ll go bail there’ll be some exthra gray hairs on ould Crummle’s skull before he finds a wake spot in our four walls, or gets a prod of a bay’net into our stomachs—savin’ your presence, ma’am!”

“Are all the guns an’ swoords an’ things in ordher?” axes the Countess.

“They are, ma’am,” says Mike, “as far as they go. I’ve scoured the insides of the cannons until ’tis like new churns they are, an’ as for the swoords you could shave in the dark wud ’em; but indeed ’tis only for show we’ll want the swoords or the cannons, for the dickens ever Crummle will get wudin rayche of a swoord except we make a sally out afther the vagabone when he’s in full rethrate, an’ I needn’t tell yerself what sort the cannons are, but I’ll make a display wud ’em, you may depind.”

“’Tis a fine man you are!” says the Countess; “an’ if you’d only sign the pledge I’d double your wages on the spot.”