heard of the like before! Hot grub first, and cowld dhrink atop of
it—regular American fashion! ’Tis in disgrace I’ll be altogether if I
have to rethrate out of this and write home that soda-wather licked
me. I must only thry and inveigle the Countess into makin’ a thratey
wud me. Run quick to the van,” says he to the officer that brought
him the bottle, “an’ bring the flag of thruce back wud you. You’ll
find it undher the dhriver’s sate.”
So the officer rides off, an’ Crummle stud gazin’ at the earth wud
his mouth wide open like as if he was in a dhrame.
Mike Morrissey was watchin’ him all the time from behind the stack
of chimneys. Poor Mike! he was fairly wore out for a spell. He was
afther sendin’ off all the soda-wather, but he had the lemonade in
reserve. He looked at Crummle through wan eye, and says he,—
“I’ll keep that cannon-ball here another spell, but I think I’ll thry
what chance I’d have of hittin’ Crummle a clout of a bottle. ’Tis a
long shot, an’ my arm is tired, but if I miss him on the skull maybe
I’ll catch him on the bread-basket.”
So Mike grips the first of the lemonade bottles in his fist, an’
swings himself round for the throw. The minute he’d let go he puts
the spyglass to his eye, but, begor, there was no occasion for a
spyglass, for the bawl Crummle gev out of him ’ud be worth a pound a
week to a railway porther.
There he sat, doubled up on his horse, wud his two hands grippin’
his stomach, an’ the screams comin’ out of him that you’d think ’twas
a flock of curlews he was. “Aha!” roars Mike Morrissey. “How do you
like that, my bowld warrior?”
“An’ now,” says Mike to himself, “I best let fly at him wud the
cannon.”
So he rammed a charge into the gun, an’ fixed it for blowin’ the head
off Crummle. He just got his wan eye travellin’ along the barrel to
see that the shot ’ud carry properly, when what does he see but an
officer ridin’ up to Crummle an’ handin’ him the flag of thruce.
Crummle took wan hand off his stomach, and wud the other hand he
began wavin’ the flag over his head, so poor Mike had to blow out his
match, for he couldn’t for the life of him fire on a flag of thruce,
though he felt in his heart that the inemy didn’t desarve to be
thrated accordin’ to the thirty-nine articles.
“We’re be’t!” shouts Crummle, scarcely able to say the words wud the
cramp in his stomach. “We’re fairly licked. What terms will you be
axin’ from us to laive us rethrate in paice?”
Mike Morrissey stepped out in front of the battlements, an’ he shouts
back at Crummle,—
“I must ax her ladyship what answer I’ll give you, for I’m only a
sarvint. I suppose I may tell herself that you’ll repair all the
damage, at any rate?”
“Of coorse,” answers Crummle. “I’ll do anything in raison.”
“Will you pay for the soda-wather?” axes Mike.
“How much a dozen is it?” says Crummle.
“I’ll ax herself that, too,” says Mike; “but am I to undherstand
you’ll pay?”
“I will,” says Crummle, “but thry an’ let me off at wholesale price.”
“O, we always gives a reduction on a quantity!” says Mike, wud a grin.
“Well, like a good fellow, will you make haste an’ ax herself the
lowest terms? an’ if we settles the job, as of coorse I expect we
will, I suppose I may make bowld enough to thresspass on you for a
hot poultice for my stomach?”
“I think we’ll go that far,” says Mike; “so stand there now,
Crummle,” says he, “an’ keep wavin’ your flag until I comes back.”
Then Mike jumped down off the battlements, an’ ’twas in great glee he
was. “Begor,” says he, “she can’t refuse to stand a whole gallon jar
of the hard stuff afther winnin’ the battle for her, an’ if ever a
man had raison to go on a spree it’s my own self afther gainin’ such
a victhory.”
So he goes down to the Countess’s apartments, thinkin’ of the grand
time he’d have of it laither on wud a whole gallon of malt all to
himself, an’ maybe a deck of cards to play “forty-five” wud the girls.
He shoves in the door of Lady Catherine’s room, an’ there was herself
pacin’ up an’ down like a sinthry.
“Well, Mike,” says she, “how is the battle goin’?”
“It’s partly over,” says he, thryin’ to break the good news to her
gently, fearin’ if she heard the thruth all at wance it might give
her a shock that ’ud injure her constitution.
“Over!” says she. “An’ are we murdhered?”
“Well,” says he, as if he wor only tellin’ her that to-morrow ’ud be
a fine day, “we’re not quite licked yet.”
“O, don’t be standin’ there an’ stammerin’ at me,” says she, “but
tell me the thruth this minute whether the news be good or bad.”
“We’ve be’t the inemy clane,” says Mike, wud a smile on him that
stretched his mouth from ear to ear.
“Glory be to heaven!” says the Countess, “but that’s grand news
intirely! It’s a fine man you are!” says she. “How did you manage it
at all?”
“Principally,” says he, “wud soda-wather;” an’ then he up an’ he
towld her the whole story.
“Wondherful!” says she, whin she had heard all about Mike’s
manœuvres. “You see now, isn’t teetotal dhrink a grand thing?”
“’Tis,” says he, his jaw dhroppin’ at the words—“to throw away.”
“An’ is that the gratitude you shows to the soda-wather?” axes the
Countess.
“Arrah, whisht, woman!” says he, losin’ his timper, “an’ thry an’
think of something more saisonable than your bastely teetotalism.
’Tis ever in your head it is, wakin’ an’ sleepin’!”
“How dar’ you,” says the Countess, “spake to me like that?”
“O, don’t let us be squabblin’, ma’am,” says Mike. “Poor Crummle’ll
be wore out standin’ there waitin’ for your answer. An’ while you’re
makin’ up your mind, would you aither give me the kays of the cellar,
or ring the bell an’ ax wan of the undher-servants to fetch a gallon
of malt to my private apartment?”
“Is it dhramein’ you are, Mike?” says her ladyship.
“I don’t usually dhrame standin’,” says the head-gunner.
“Maybe ’tis dhrunk you are?” says she.
“No,” says Mike; “but, plaize heaven, I _will_ be, laither on.”
“Begor,” says her ladyship, stampin’ her fut on the flure, “I never
heard of such a piece of impudence in all my born days, as the manner
you spakes to me in. ’Tis a maygrim in your brain you must have from
swingin’ round wud them bottles.”
“That may be,” says Mike, shakin’ his head an’ lookin’ ten years
ouldher, as he thought of havin’ a maygrim hove at him as his reward
for desthroyin’ a whole army; “but anyhow the form the maygrim takes
now is a quart pot of ale on the spot to wash down the dust in my
throath, an’ the gallon of malt in due coorse. Don’t dhrive me
desperate,” says he, liftin’ his hand as much as to say, “hear me out
an’ no intherruptions,” an’ risin’ his voice at the same time; “or
maybe you’ll regret it all the days of your life, an’ generations
unborn will be handin’ your name from wan to another as an example
of what faymale ingratitude can dhrive an honest man an’ a faithful
sarvint to. Phew!” says he, rubbin’ his forehead as if the spayche
exhausted him complately.
Lady Catherine looked at him hard, an’ for a minute her heart was
touched by the airnist words that came from Mike; so she rang the
bell and stud starin’ at the head-gunner wudout attemptin’ to open
her lips.
A young slip of a sarvint-boy answered the Countess’s bell, an’ for
wan minute her ladyship was goin’ to pass Mike’s ordher on to the
boy; but she hesitated as the daymon of teetotalism tuk howld of her,
an’ she whispered her insthructions into the boy’s ears.
Then she turned to Mike, an’ says she, “I’ve sint for the best
dhrink on the premises for you; but I’m sadly afeard we must part
afther this job wud Crummle is settled, for much as I admires you,
Misther Morrissey, this cravin’ of yours for grog ’ud be only a
constant source of throuble between us, an’ I hopes you’ll believe
me, I’m partin’ wud you much agen my will. I’ll give you a written
characther, too,” says she, seein’ that Mike didn’t offer to spake,
“that’ll be sartin’ to get you a generalship in some family that are
your own way of thinkin’ in regard of the drink.”
As she was sayin’ the words, the sarvint-boy enthered the room wud a
grand silver mug on a grand silver thray.
“Dhrink that now, Misther Morrissey,” says she; “an’ I’ll warrant
that ’twill stick to your ribs as well as wash the cobwebs out of
your throath.”
Mike took the mug off the thray an’ looked at it.
“Butthermilk!” says he, dashin’ it on the flure. “This is the last
sthraw,” says he, scowlin’ at the Countess for wan second. An’ thin
he sthrode out of the room.
Up he rushes to the top of the battlements an’ looks down at Crummle,
who was still wavin’ his flag an’ still groanin’.
“Crummle!” shouts the head-gunner.
“Ay, ay!” shouts Crummle back at him.
“Is there any whisky or bottled porther in the van?”
“Lashin’s of both,” answers Crummle; “but for the love of goodness
let me dhrop the flag, for my arm is fairly wore out. I takes it,”
says he, “that ye’ll give fair terms.”
“Write an ordher on the keeper of the van for whatever dhrink I
requires,” says Mike, “an’ while you’re scribblin’ the words, I’ll
go down an’ open the front door for you, an’ you can make your own
thratey from the inside.”
“Milia murther!” shouts Crummle, forgettin’ the pain in his stomach,
an’ ready to jump out of his skin wud joy. “Is it sellin’ the pass
you are?”
“’Tis,” says Mike; “an’ all I’ll ax for meself is that you’ll do no
hurt or harm to any one in the castle.”
“I’ll give you my word that far,” says Crummle.
“Maynin’ no offence,” says Mike, “I must have it in writin’; an’ whin
you drops the thratey into the letther box I’ll open the door for
you.”
“All right, my sweet fellow,” says Crummle, takin’ out his writing
maytarials from the breastpocket of his jacket.
Off jumps poor Mike from the battlements an’ down the stairs he
rushes headlong; an’ that night Don Isle Castle fell into Crummle’s
hands, an’ ever since ’tis known as “Butthermilk Castle.”
No wan ever could tell for sartin what became of Mike Morrissey.
Some said he joined the Monks of the Screw, an’ more said he turned
Orangeman; but ’tis my own private belief that Crummle in ordher
to get back the thratey, gev insthructions in cipher to have the
dhrink poisoned for Mike, an that the poor gunner met threachery for
threachery. Anyhow, I’m towld that at times his “fetch” and that of
the Lady Catherine pays a visit to the top of the ruins of Don Isle;
an’ whinever they’re cotched sight of, Mike’s ghost is seen to dash
out of the hands of Lady Catherine’s ghost, the ghost of a mug of
butthermilk; an’ thin they all vanishes wud a cry that’s a cross
between the wail of a _banshee_ an’ the sound of a foghorn from a
steamboat in disthress.
[Illustration: (banner) RALEIGH IN MUNSTER]
Many generations ago there appeared at the English Coort a young
fellow by the name of Walther Rolly. He was a darin’ sojer an’ a
darin’ navigathor, but wud all his navigatin’ an’ sogerin’ he could
never keep his mind off the money. Day an’ night he was always
dhramein’ of goold; an’ nothing was too hot or too heavy for him so
long as there was goold at the bottom of the job. Wan minute he’d go
an’ discover a new counthry out in the bowels of the unknown says,
an’ another minute he’d start an’ knock the daylights out of the
French army or the Spanish Armady. O! he was a darin’ man altogether
an’ no mistake; but the money, as I’ve towld you, was always in his
mind.
[Illustration: RALEIGH IN MUNSTER.]
Of coorse he didn’t do his thravellin’ an’ sogerin’ for nothing,
but he found ’twasn’t aisy at all to make a big fortune, the Coort
had so many pickin’s out of everything. Aich an’ every man in the
Coort was bustin’ wud jealousy of young Walther, an’ of coorse they
all used their endayvours to cut Rolly’s share down to the lowest
penny whinever he brought a cargo of diamonds into port, or nabbed a
threasure-ship from the King of Spain.
Well, wan day Rolly was walkin’ along the sthreets of London, turnin’
over some new plan for shovellin’ in the coin, whin what does he see
but Eleezabeth, the Queen of all England, pickin’ her steps across
the road!
’Twas a muddy day, an’ crossin’-sweepers, I’m towld, worn’t invinted
in that time, so Rolly seein’ her Majesty’s shoes wor rather slendher
in the soles, an’ that the mud was stickin’ to ’em like wax, rushes
over to her, whips off his cloak, an’ axes her to make a door-mat of
it. Eleezabeth just looked at him for wan minute, an’ sure enough she
recognized him.
“Rolly!” says she, wipin’ her boots on the cloak.
“The same, your Majesty, at your sarvice,” says he, kneelin’ down on
wan knee as if to pick up his cloak, but ralely wud the intintion of
remindin’ Eleezabeth that now was her chance to make a knight of him
aisy.
Her Majesty looks at him out undher the corners of her eyes, an’ it
sthruck her more than ever what a handsome young chap this Rolly was,
an’ begor, says she to herself, “he seems a rale Coort gintleman,
an’ maybe I’m doin’ wrong in bein’ so bitther agen the men”—for you
must know Queen Eleezabeth was teetotally opposed to mathrimony. All
the single kings in Europe, an’ all the princes an’ lords at her
own Coort ’ud be only too aiger to lade her to the althar, but she
wouldn’t look at wan of ’em at any price. However, this young Rolly
tuk her fancy all of a suddint, an’ she ups wud her umbrella an’
there an’ then she hits him a whack of it on the showldher, an’ says
she, “Rise up, Sir Walther Rolly—an’ call a covered car for me!”
So Rolly did as he was towld, an’ he didn’t forget to pick up his
cloak aither. “Send that to the wash,” says Queen Eleezabeth; “an’
I’ll see that you gets a new cloak out of the royal wardrobe, for
’twas a very gintlemanly act to spread it undher the soles of my
feet.”
“All right, your Majesty,” says Rolly, openin’ the door of the
covered car, an’ helpin’ her into it.
“Come up to the Coort,” says she, “afther taytime, an’ I’ll have a
talk wud you about a job that I think ’ud suit you complately.”
“I will,” says Rolly, “wud the greatest of pleasure; an’ ’tis much
obliged to you I am for makin’ a knight of me.”
“Don’t mintion it,” says she. An’ then the car druv off towards the
Palace.
The same evenin’ Rolly dhresses himself in his Sunday clothes, an’
fixes rings all over his fingers, an’ puts into his scarf a beautiful
new pin he’d snatched out of a Spanish prince’s shirt, an’ afther
oilin’ his hair, and spillin’ a dhrop of scent on his han’kerchief,
he starts off for the Palace an’ was shown up to the Queen’s
apartments.
“Well, Sir Walther,” says Queen Eleezabeth, “I’ve been makin’
enquiries about you, an’ I’m towld you’re on the look-out for a job.
Is that so?”
“It is,” says he.
“What sort of a job ’ud you like?” says she.
“Anything that’ll pay,” says he.
“Did you ever hear tell of Ireland in your thravels?” axes the Queen.
“I did, thin; but at the present moment I couldn’t give you the
bearin’s of it, though if you axed where any part of Afrikay or
Amerikay was, I could tell you right off the exact lie of it by the
compass.”
“Sthrange,” says she, “you never ventured to Ireland!”
“I’m towld there’s no money there,” says he.
“Well, there isn’t many goold mines in it,” says the Queen, wud a
laugh; “for we’ve been squeezin’ ’em purty dhry since my ancesthor,
ould Henery the Second, grabbed the counthry. But wud all that,”
says she, “there’s dodges of makin’ money there if you only goes the
right way about it.”
“I hear ’tis an onsettled sort of a place,” says Rolly.
“’Tis,” says the Queen; “an’ that’s what I’m dhrivin’ at just now.
You’re not particular what you do?” says she.
“No, thin,” says he. “I’m a purty hard case by this, an’ if it’s
murdher you mane, I’m the boy for flourishin’ the swoord.”
“Well,” says the Queen, “I didn’t exactly mane that whin I axed you
the questhion. Are you too proud to go into thrade!”
“’Deed, thin, I’m not,” says Rolly; “an’ if it’s the bacon thrade you
mane,” says he, “which I’ve heard tell is the main stay of Ireland,
I’m not at all averse to goin’ into the pig line, on a royal licence.”
“No,” says the Queen. “That’s too paceful a thrade for me.”
“An’ what is it you’re dhrivin’ at?” axes Rolly, seein’ that her
Majesty was seemin’ly afeard to come out straight off wud her plan.
“I towld you nothing was out of my line so long as I could see money
at the end of it.”
“Very well,” says the Queen. “I’ll put my plans before you. I’m
advised that very little ’ud rise a rebellion agen me in Munsther, so
if you likes to go over an’ stir up the craychurs there, you’d have
no throuble in slaughtherin’ ’em.”
“An’ I suppose,” says Rolly, intherruptin’ her Majesty, “you’d give
me so much a head for the job—but where does the thrade come in?”
“You’re runnin’ away wud the story,” says she. “You see this is
how it is. I’ve lately come to the conclusion that it’s dangerous
to go on slaughtherin’ the Irish wudout buryin’ ’em aftherwards. A
pestilence is like enough to break out, an’ maybe a sthrong westherly
win’ ’ud carry that same over into this counthry; so my idaya is to
put all the corpses into coffins, an’ bury ’em dacently. Now this is
what I’m goin’ to offer you, so pay attention, Rolly,” says the Queen.
“I’m doin’ that,” says he, dhrawin’ his eyebrows very hard together.
“Go over to Munsther,” says she, “an’ I’ll make you a prisent of
forty thousand acres of land.”
“What’s on the land?” axes Rolly.
“Tember,” says she. “Fine hardy threes, I’m towld. Now if you starts
the Irish into a lively rebellion in your disthrict, you can set up
a facthory an’ do the undhertakin’ wholesale, for I wouldn’t ax a
knight to do it by retail.”
“I see,” says he, grinnin’. “A nod is as good as a wink to a blind
horse, ma’am. An’ so it’s an undhertaker you wants to make of me?”
“It is,” says she: “a Gentleman-Undhertaker.”
“An’ how much will you allow me?” axes Rolly.
“Two pound a coffin,” says she; “an’ the bigger the bill is, the
betther I’ll like it.”
“When’ll I start?” says he.
“As soon as I can get the ordher made out for the forty thousand
acres,” answers the Queen.
“You’re sure there’s plenty of tember on the estate?” says he.
“Sartin,” says she. “I can show you the survey of it before you signs
the conthract wud me.”
“’Twouldn’t pay, you know,” says he, “if the wood wasn’t handy.”
“I know that,” says she. “And now I’ll be dismissin’ you, for it’s
growin’ late, an’ I have a character to lose.”
“I hope you’ll never lose it on my account,” says Rolly, who had a
nate way of turnin’ his words. An’ wud that he makes a low bow an’
walks out of the room as graceful as a dancin’-masther.
The next day, afther signin’ his conthract an’ gettin’ the ordher for
the forty thousand acres of land, off starts Sir Walther for Ireland
wud a hundhred sogers to help him out in the job he had in hand. He
landed afther a good voyage in the harbour of Cork, an’ at wance he
put matthers in thrain.
Afther buildin’ a bit of a fort as a kind of a backdoor to the ocean,
he tuk a jauntin’ car an’ thravelled down to Youghal, where he
thought he’d make his headquarthers an’ start the facthory. He had
some throuble in the beginnin’ findin’ journeymen undhertakers, but
of coorse he spun a yarn to ’em about the good he’d do the counthry
by inthroducin’ home-manufacture; an’ at last he got a sufficient
number of hands together, an’ thin the work began in airnest. He
felled the threes in all directions, an’ he got up a sawmill; an’
soon Rolly had the whole town of Youghal busy, wan way or another, at
the coffin thrade.
Whin all was in full swing he dhrives back to his fort, an’ gives his
insthructions to his men.
“I’m goin’,” says he, “to take command of all the throops in Cork
barracks, an’ as soon as they’re ready, then I’ll order ’em out of
the city an’ get ’em to scour the Province of Munsther clane. There’s
a dale of varmint in the shape of natives gothered together in parts
of the counthry, an’ we’ll massacray ’em so far as we can. Now to
all ye that I brought wud me I have this advice to give: don’t put
yerselves into danger. Let the other throops have the first go-in
at the inemy, an’ when they’re done wud ’em, let ye finish ’em off
complately, for of coorse there’ll be a dale of ’em only half kilt.
We’re partly on a paceful mission here, an’ thrade is what we’re
lookin’ for, not glory. The hundhred of ye must get up a conthrivance
for cartin’ the corpses to the facthory in Youghal, where we’ll put
’em into good conthract coffins an’ give ’em a dacent buryin’. I was
towld yestherday,” says he, “that at a neighbourin’ fort there was
a crowd of Tallyans, an’ I intinds to have the first thry at the
furriners, by way of practice.”
Well, in the coorse of a week Rolly got things into shape, an’ out
he marches, with the fightin’ throops in the front an’ the thradin’
throops in the rear, agen this fort the Tallyans wor howldin’. The
poor craychurs of furriners, men, women, an’ childre, whin they saw
the great army bearin’ down on ’em, sent a flag of thruce up to the
masthead of the fort an’ axed for a _parlez-vous_, but dickens a
_parlez-vous_ Rolly would give ’em, an’ while you’d be lookin’ about
you, he had the whole place sthrewn wud corpses; an’ when the front
army got tired of massacrayin’ the furriners, his own hundhred men
went in, just as he had towld ’em, and finished off the wounded.
Six hundhred corpses they gothered up that day an’ carted into
Youghal; an’ Rolly was in high feather as he stood at the facthory
gate tallyin’ the coffins as they wor carried out an’ heaved into a
neighbourin’ thrench.
“I’ll make a clane five hundhred pound on that job,” says he. “If I
can keep up this game, I’ll soon be able to write home.”
An’ sure enough, keep it up he did, an the facthory was in full
swing for a long spell; an’ then he bethought him that Queen
Eleezabeth ’ud like to hear how he was gettin’ on, so, bein’ a great
hand at the pen, he sat down wan day an’ sent her off a long letther,
which to the best of my memory was written this way:—
“May it plaize your Majesty, Queen Eleezabeth.
“I write these few lines, hopin’ they will find you in good
health, as this laives me at prisent.
“I’m gettin’ on grand here. I suppose the head-clerk of your
Coort has towld you that I’m billin’ him for a thousand coffins
a week on the average. I’m sorry to say there isn’t as much
profit on the job as I expected, an’ I’m sadly afeard my foreman
is chaytin’ me on the putty account, but if I only catches
him playin’ thricks on me, you may depind I’ll include him in
the coffin bill purty quick. He’s a native of these parts,
an’ ’tisn’t clear to me he isn’t risin’ a rebellion among the
facthory hands agen me.
“This is a mighty poor counthry. I’ve prodded it in all parts
for goold an’ diamonds, but there isn’t as much as a scuttle of
coal to be found anywhere in it.
“I met a man the other day that lives over beyant here, by the
name of Spinser. He tells me yerself an’ himself knows aich
other, an’ often I rides over to his place in the cool of the
evenin’, an’ we haves a talk over the gay doin’s at the London
Coort. He’s writin’ a long ballad now, an’ between ourselves he
nearly dhrives me crazy at times dhronin’ long rigmaroles of his
own writin’ into my ears; but I’m goin’ to have my revinge agen
him wan of these fine days by bringin’ over a ballad I’m writin’
meself, an’ maybe when he’s had a few hours of it he’ll come to
his sinses.
“An’ now I’ll be sayin’ good-bye, so no more at prisent from your
faithful Undhertaker,
“SIR WALTHER ROLLY.
“PS.—If things goes on as they promise, I’ll have to start a
gas-ingine here purty soon.”
Queen Eleezabeth was greatly plaized wud Rolly’s letther, an’ she gev
ordhers to have another ten shillin’s a coffin added to the conthract
price, in ordher to encourage him in the work; an’ maybe Sir Walther
would have stuck to the undhertakin’ business for the rest of his
life, only for the foreman of the facthory. Sure enough the same
foreman was saycritly risin’ a rebellion agen Rolly, an’ by some
misfortunate chance the great Undhertaker found him out complately,
so he cut his head off; an’ what does he do but he makes a parcel of
it, an’ sinds it over carriage paid to the Queen!
Her Majesty got the foreman’s sconce just as she was atein’ her
breakfast wan mornin’, an’ though she had a mighty sthrong stomach
the head gev her a kind of a turn; so she ordhers it to be sent back
straight to Youghal, an’ she gives a message wud it to Rolly that
she had closed the coffin account wud him for darin’ to make such an
onnaatural prisent to her.