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.
[Illustration: THE LAST OF THE DRAGONS.]
[Illustration: (banner) THE LAST OF THE DRAGONS.]
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.