Produced by Demian Katz and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy
of the Digital Library@Villanova University
(http://digital.library.villanova.edu/))
FUN O' THE FORGE
STORIES
BY
BRIAN
O'HIGGINS
_All Rights Reserved_
DUBLIN
WHELAN AND SON
17 UPPER ORMOND QUAY
_Cahill & Co., Ltd., Printers, Dublin._
FOREWORD
In addition to many other blessings, God has given to us, Gaels of the
Irish land, the priceless gift of humour, the saving grace of laughter.
May we never lose them! They have been good friends to us in the days
of darkness; let it be one of our duties to nurture and strengthen them
in the brighter day that has already dawned in Eirinn. Throughout the
land, in forge and workshop, in field and by fireside, there is many a
Ned McGrane--witty, wise and laughter-loving--who has the power to pull
aside the gloomy curtains of melancholy and moodiness and to pour into
the hearts of all who will listen to him the sunshine of merriment and
mirth, while never saying a word that would offend the most sensitive
ear or leave a bad impression on the most susceptible mind. In this,
as in a thousand other ways, we differ from the enemy that is still
within our gates. His best humour is coarse or smutty, his heartiest
laughter is jarring and hurtful, his outlook on life is very different
to that of the genial blacksmith of Balnagore. God speed the day when
the smutty wit of the Sasanach shall be heard no longer in our land,
when the laughter of the open-hearted, clean-minded Gael shall ring
from end to end of Eirinn, lighting every mind, lifting up every heart,
and softening for all who have suffered the memory of those sadder days
that they have known.
BRIAN O HUIGINN.
_Samhain, 1917._
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE BLACKSMITH'S CHARM 9
HOW JIMMY SETTLED THE SOJER 24
THE CONFISCATED BACON 35
"BOW-WOW" 50
HOW JOHNNIE GOT HIS DEGREE 61
THE BEST OF A BARGAIN 71
WHEN DENIS TURNED TO THE TAY 78
A GLORIOUS VICTORY 85
ON ELECTIONS 94
NED'S TRIP TO DUBLIN 98
THE LAWYER FOR THE DEFENCE 104
THE FIRST PLUM PUDDING 110
FUN O' THE FORGE.
THE BLACKSMITH'S CHARM
I.
The smithy in which Ned M'Grane carried on his trade was close to the
roadside, about a quarter of a mile from the head of the glen. There
was no house very close to it on any side, though old Peggy Hogan's
cottage was not so far away but that Ned could hear Peggy's shrill
"Chuck, chuck, chuck," every evening at sundown, as she called her hens
and chickens home to roost. The smithy was sheltered by the big beeches
which overhung the road from Rowan's demesne, and when the fire was in
full glow it was as fine a place for a seanchus among the "boys" as
you'd find in any corner of the broad land of Eireann; and well did the
boys know that, because there was scarcely a night during the whole
winter on which they didn't gather around the cheery fire in the forge,
and discuss in breezy fashion and with a good deal of wit, almost every
subject of interest under the sun, while they watched Ned M'Grane at
his work, and openly admired the strength of his shapely arms.
Ned was as famous for his wit as for his proficiency in all the
mysteries of the trade, and he could tell stories, old and new, that
would draw laughter from the loneliest heart that ever beat. He
was a favourite with old and young, and there wasn't a boy in the
countryside who, sometime or other, didn't make a confidant of the
genial blacksmith, and ask the advice which he was always willing to
give. To help a man out of a scrape, to stand by a comrade in distress,
to make glad a company with clean and ready wit, to resent an evil
deed or to show whole-hearted appreciation of a good one, there wasn't
in all Ireland a man who could out-match Ned M'Grane, the laughing,
jovial, generous blacksmith of Balnagore.
One night, just a week before Shrove (no matter whether 'twas last year
or the year before or ten years ago) the smithy was, for a wonder,
deserted by all its usual visitors, and the smith was alone with his
work and his thoughts, which latter found expression in the snatches of
song he sung in the intervals between placing the piece of iron upon
which he was working in the fire and the taking out of it again, to be
pounded on the anvil. He was just finishing a song, the last verse of
which ran like this:
"No! no! across the thundering waves the answer rings full high!
No! no! re-echoes many a heart beneath the Irish sky
The land shall wake, her exiled sons across the sea shall sail
Once more to set a coronet on queenly Grainne Mhaol."
and was giving the finishing touches to a new horse-shoe, when he heard
a voice at the door say, "God bless the work," and on looking up his
eyes met the open, honest, handsome face of his cousin and dearest
friend and comrade, Seumas Shanley of Drumberagh.
"An' you, too, a mhic o," answered Ned M'Grane, with a welcoming smile.
"You're the very man I was thinkin' about a few minutes ago, an' I'm
glad you're by yourself. Any change in the plan of campaign? Is Old
Crusty as determined as ever?"
"Worse than ever," said Seumas Shanley, as he picked up a piece of a
broken match-box from the floor, set it blazing at the forge fire, and
lighted his pipe with it. "Nannie says that he got into a tearin' rage
out an' out last night when she refused again to marry Jack the Jobber,
an' he won't let her leave his sight for a minute. All she could do was
to send me a note with old Kitty Malone to-day. Kitty was down in it,
washin', an' she says Larry has his mind made up that Nannie must marry
Flanagan before Shrove. I was over with Father Martin to-day."
"An' what did he say?" asked Ned M'Grane.
"He said 'twould be a cryin' shame to have a sweet little girl like
Nannie Boylan tied for life to a man like Jack Flanagan, who never
comes home sober from a fair, an' who has no thought for anythin'
only cattle, an' money, an' drink. Father Martin is dead against the
match-makin', you know, an' he said he'll marry us if we go to him,
runaway or no runaway, consent or no consent."
"Faith, then, by my grandfather's whiskers, Seumas Shanley, if that's
the case, I'll see you married--yourself an' Nannie--before Shrove
yet, an' that's only this day week!" said the blacksmith, as he flung
the hammer he held in his hand into a corner, and put the bolt on the
forge door, so that no one might enter or interrupt their conversation.
"I have the plan in my head all day," he added, "an' if it doesn't work
out all right the fault won't be Ned M'Grane's."
"What's the plan?" asked Seumas, in a tone the eagerness of which he
could not conceal, although he made an effort to suppress it. He knew
that no man in Ireland could devise a plan or carry it through, better
than Ned M'Grane, and the hope that had been ebbing out of his heart
as Shrove drew near and the danger of losing his cailin ban became
every day more apparent, that hope grew as bright as the glow of the
forge fire, and leapt into his kindly, dark eyes as he waited for the
blacksmith to speak.
"Well, 'tis a simple plan enough, an' there's no great mystery about
it at all," said Ned, "an' if you an' Nannie do your share of the work
right I give you my word that it'll be the most complete night-cap
ever was put on Old Crusty or any match-makin' miser like him. You
know the way he goes nearly mad with that old front tooth of his when
it begins to pain him for all his miserly ways an' his trickeries, an'
you know as well, I suppose, the pishrogues the women do have about
every blacksmith havin' a charm for the cure of the toothache. Well, if
Nannie can set Old Crusty's tooth tearin' mad before Sunday--let her
give him somethin' real sweet to eat an' it's off--I'll guarantee to
take him out of the way for three hours, at any rate, an' any Christian
with the head set right on him could very easy be married to the girl
of his heart in three hours--couldn't he?"
"He could, Ned--God bless you!" said Seumas, in a voice that was a wee
bit husky, as he grasped the blacksmith's hand in a firm grip. "I was
nearly in despair, an' so was Nannie, an' we couldn't think of a plan
at all. We'll not forget it to you, never fear."
"O, it's not over yet," said Ned, as if to put a check on the other's
impulsiveness. "You'll have to see Nannie some way or other, an' tell
her all you intend to do, an' have her on her guard. She must give a
sort of a promise to marry Flanagan, an' then ask Old Crusty to leave
her free until after Lent; an' she must have some grievance or other
against you. Do you understand? An' there must be nothin' done to make
the old lad suspicious, an' you must have everything ready, so that
there'll be no fluster or delay. An' above all, the tooth must be set
ragin' mad.
"Off you pop now, a mhic o, an' more power to you. It'll be as good as
a thousand pound to me to see Old Crusty's face when he finds out the
whole thing. Come over Friday night an' tell me how the game is goin'.
Good night, now, an' God speed you."
"Good night, Ned. I'll not fail, please God, an' I'll not forget it to
you as long as I live."
And Seumas Shanley went, the glow of a great hope lighting all the way
before him.
II.
When Ned M'Grane lifted the latch of Larry Boylan's kitchen door
and walked into the spacious kitchen itself on the following Sunday
afternoon there was a look of concern on his usually jovial face, and
when Larry turned his gaze from the fire to greet the visitor, the look
of concern on Ned's face deepened very considerably and perceptibly,
and he seemed very much perturbed. Larry sat in a crouching attitude
quite close to the big fire of blazing turf-sods, a red handkerchief
covering his chin, his jaws, and his ears, and knotted on top of his
head. He held his hand over his mouth, and now and then he groaned
most miserably and lugubriously. An old woman--the same Kitty Malone
mentioned by Seumas Shanley--was working about the kitchen; no one else
was to be seen.
The blacksmith was a pretty frequent and always a welcome visitor at
Larry Boylan's. He was Nannie Boylan's godfather, and old Larry as well
claimed relationship with the M'Grane family--usually when he wanted
some work done at the forge. He was, therefore, glad to see Ned on the
present occasion.
"I'm sorry to see the enemy is at you again, Larry," said Ned, as he
seated himself on the stool placed before the fire for him by Kitty. "I
wondered when I didn't see you at Mass to-day, an' I didn't know what
was up until I met Kitty there, on the road, an' she said it was the
tooth. Is it bad? It must be a cold you got."
"Oh, it's a terror, Ned," groaned Larry, as a twinge of pain passed
over his weazened face. "I never had it as bad before. I'm nearly
cracked with it, an' the head is like to fly off me. Nannie that
brought home a curran' cake from the market yesterday, an' sweet, white
stuff on the top of it, an' we ate it with the tay, an' about an hour
after the old tooth gave one jump, an' it's at me ever since. I never
slept a wink all night with it. Nannie herself got the toothache about
a couple of hours ago, an' she's mortial bad with it, too. She had to
go to bed a while ago."
"The poor thing," said Ned M'Grane, sympathetically. "I'm sorry in
troth, for both of you, an' glad that I came down. I might as well not
be at home at all, because Seumas Shanley wanted me to go with him over
to Knockbride after Mass. He was goin' over to see some of his mother's
people that came home from America. I think they're goin' to have a
spree or a flare-up of some kind over there to-night. I was near goin'
only I knew I'd have to be up early in the mornin' to shoe the Major's
horses."
"The same bucko is no loss by goin' to Knockbride or anywhere else,"
said Larry, with a frown; and then in a whisper, and forgetting the
toothache for a moment, he said: "I'm thinkin' he's after some lassie
in that direction. When he seen I wouldn't let Nannie throw over a
well-to-do, comfortable man like Jack Flanagan for a scamp like him,
I suppose he took after some other decent man's daughter. He was
stravagin' about the market yesterday with some strange girl, an'
wouldn't even look at us. I think my lassie," jerking his thumb towards
the door of the little bedroom to which Nannie had retired, "had a wish
for him up to that, but she saw then it wasn't her, but the place, he
was after. And I'm glad she got sense, because it isn't every day she
could get married into a place like Jack Flanagan's--an' it's little
fortune he wants either. We made the match for after Lent yesterday."
"Is that a fact?" said Ned. "Well, your mind ought to be easy now."
"So it is, Ned; so it is. When it came to the finish, Nannie didn't go
against my wishes, an' all she asked was that I'd leave her free until
after Lent; an' sure there's no use in rushin' it--is there, Ned?"
"Divil a use," said Ned.
At this juncture the tooth began to ache again worse than ever, and
Larry squirmed in his seat with pain.
"I was tellin' Mr. Boylan to-day," said old Kitty Malone to Ned, "that
every blacksmith has a charm for the toothache, an' I was wantin' him
to go up to you an' see, but he said maybe you haven't it at all. Have
you it, Mr. M'Grane?"
"Well, I must be an amadán out an' out not to think of it before now,"
said Ned. "To be sure I have it. Every blacksmith in the world has it,
but it's no use to him outside his own forge. Troth it's many a one
came to me with the toothache, an' any o' them that followed my advice
hadn't the pain very long."
"Do you tell me so, Ned?" asked Larry, between his groans.
"Aye, indeed," said Ned. "But some o' them is that foolish that they
must run away to one o' them lads that pulls teeth, an' get themselves
half murdered, an' then pay dear for it. I saw on the paper where a man
died after gettin' a tooth pulled, an' I saw where a great doctor said
that if you let the pain o' the toothache go on for five days one after
the other, or get the tooth pulled wrong, you're liable to drop dead
at any minute."
"Lord bless an' save us!" said old Kitty Malone, in tones of awe and
fear.
Larry looked startled.
"An' do you have the charm always, Ned?" he asked, with evident anxiety
in his voice.
"Of course I do," answered Ned. "It's in my possession from the day I
have my trade learned until the day I die, but I can't make use of it
anywhere only in my own forge, an' with no one next or nigh me but the
person I'm goin' to cure."
"Does it hurt much, Ned?"
"That's the beauty of it entirely, Larry--it doesn't hurt at all. You
might as well be asleep when the charm is working on you, for all the
bother or pain it gives you."
"Couldn't you do it here, Ned?"
"Not if I was to get all Ireland, an' England, an' Scotland put
together, an' the Isle of Man threw on top of them. I couldn't do it
anywhere only in my own forge above.
"Do you know what you'll do, Larry? Just keep that handkerchief on your
head, an' put your overcoat on you an' come up to the forge with me,
an' I promise you that in a couple of hours' time you'll be back here,
safe an' sound, an' not as much pain or ache in that tooth as there is
in the hearthstone there."
"Aye do, Mr. Boylan," chimed in Kitty. "It's a terrible thing to think
of what'd happen if it keeps at you for five days, an' sure it's
wearin' you down already."
"An' is it no harm to work the charm on a Sunday, Ned?" asked Larry,
who was evidently giving way.
"Not the least bit o' harm in the world," said Ned. "Sunday or Monday,
night, noon or mornin', it's all the same."
"Troth, then," said Larry, as he rose, "I think I'll go. Get me that
coat, Kitty. If it sticks to Nannie until to-morrow she'll have to go,
too."
"The bed is the best place for her at present," said Ned M'Grane, as he
passed out after Larry, "but don't let her stay too long in it, Kitty."
And Kitty's nod, in answer to the wink which accompanied this remark,
was sufficient to prove that she fully understood.
III.
When they reached the forge it was just nightfall, but Ned lighted a
lamp or lantern which hung on the wall, bolted the door, closed the
window shutters, and then proceeded to light the fire. Larry watched
him with the greatest interest, while he himself moaned and groaned and
stamped about with the fierce pain of the big, shaking tooth.
It was one of the front teeth and very prominent. A tooth on each side
of it had long since departed, and so it stood out in bold relief, grim
and determined-looking. The pain was so constant and so annoying now
that Larry would have suffered any torture to get rid of it.
"How do you work the charm, Ned?" he asked at length, when there was
no likelihood of the mystic rite being put into practice.
"Oh that's a secret that can't be given away to any man or mortal,"
said Ned, as he divested himself of his coat and proceeded, slowly and
carefully, to roll up his shirt sleeves. "'Twould be a big risk for me
to let anyone know that; I might be on the look-out for some terrible
punishment. In fact, I hardly know myself how it works. It takes place
by some power beyond my knowledge entirely, Larry. I'm only like the
means of settin' it in motion, an' then it does all the rest itself in
a strange an' mysterious manner.
"Now, I want you, Larry, before I start at all, to give me your solemn
word that you'll wait, real patient, until the charm is ready to
work, an' that you'll make no complaint either before or after the
charm takes place. Some people get impatient an' make some complaint
or other, an' then, instead of the charm workin', the pain o' the
toothache gets worse than ever, an' sometimes they die that very night.
Do you promise, Larry?"
"I promise, Ned, that no matter how severe or how long the workin' o'
the charm is I'll not make the least complaint, because I'd suffer
anythin' to ease the pain o' this infernal tooth. Sure it'll never
annoy me again, Ned?"
"Never," said Ned M'Grane, decisively, as he took from a small box a
long, thin strand of flaxen thread, and pulled and jerked it in every
conceivable fashion to test its strength. Then he stretched it three
times along the anvil, and three times along the sledge hammer, and
three times along a bar of iron, uttering all the time in a weird,
solemn tone, strange, inarticulate sounds, which silenced Larry's
groans and made him feel awed and frightened.
"Now, Larry," said the blacksmith, when this ceremony was over, "you'll
have to suffer a little pain while I get this magic band round the
achin' tooth. Open your mouth now."
Larry did as he was directed, and in a minute the smith deftly wound
the flaxen thread round the tooth, and knotted it tightly.
"Put your hands on your knees now, like a good man, and bend down
towards the anvil here," said Ned. "That's just right. Stay that way
now for a while, an' don't stir an' don't look up. You'll be all right
soon."
Whilst speaking he was tying the two ends of the flaxen thread tightly
and securely to the horn of the anvil. When this was accomplished he
put the bar of iron into the fire, gathered the glowing embers around
it, and commenced to blow the bellows vigorously.
It was a comical picture altogether.
There was Larry, his hands resting on his knees, his head bent down
until his nose was within a foot of the horn of the anvil, a stream
of water running from his open mouth, his eyes fixed upon the floor,
while he tried to groan cheerfully, in fear lest he might be taken as
complaining.
Ned now and then blew the bellows, pulled out the bar of iron, looked
at it, thrust it back again into the glowing fire, went about the forge
uttering the same inarticulate sounds that had so awed Larry at first,
and treading very softly, perhaps because he did not wish to drive away
the spirit of the charm. In one of his excursions he softly undid the
bolt, opened the door, peered out into the night, listened, and smiled.
All this went on for a full hour at least, and then the blacksmith came
over and stood beside the anvil, sledge in hand, while he commenced to
blow the bellows more vigorously than ever.
At last he broke the silence by saying that he hoped Larry was not in
very great pain, and assuring him that relief could not be very far off
now.
Larry could only groan in reply, and then Ned went on to tell, with
evident pride, of all the wonderful cures he had effected, and all the
poor sufferers he had literally snatched from the jaws of death. And
all Larry could do was groan and moan as cheerfully as possible, while
he wondered if the time for his cure would ever come.
It came when he least expected it. The smith was in the middle of a
wonderful story about a miraculous cure he had once been instrumental
in effecting, when suddenly he whipped the bar of iron from the fire,
placed it on the anvil, and brought down the sledge upon it with such
force and vigour, three times in rapid succession, that showers of
sparks--millions of them--flew in all directions through the forge!
Larry was taken completely by surprise. He gave one yell of terror as
he suddenly jerked backwards, and the next moment he lay stretched at
full length on the floor, the eyes almost starting from his head with
fright, and a little stream of blood trickling over his chin from his
mouth. The tooth hung from the horn of the anvil, suspended by the
strand of flaxen thread. The charm had been successful.
Ned M'Grane laughed long and heartily, as he looked at the prostrate
and terror-stricken Larry.
"Gorra, it worked the grandest ever I saw," he said, with a mischievous
twinkle in his eyes; "'twas the neatest job I ever did, an' you're a
powerful brave man, Larry."
Larry could hardly speak he was so frightened.
"Is--is it out, Ned?" he said at last, scarcely knowing whether he
ought to be vexed or pleased.
"Out!" cried Ned; "don't you see it, man? Didn't I tell you I'd give
you relief? Here, wash out your mouth with this sup o' soft water. An'
I don't think your appearance is improved very much by you lyin' there
on the floor. Now, is it?"
Larry rose and rinsed his mouth, as he had been bidden.
"Do you know what, Ned," he cried, "you're the finest doctor in
Ireland, an' that's the greatest charm I ever heard of in my life. I
dunno how you done it, but I must send up Nannie to you to-morrow."
At that moment a young lad thrust his head in at the door.
"All right--an hour ago," he cried, and disappeared as quickly as he
had come.
"What did he say?" asked Larry, as he saw a look of the utmost pleasure
come across Ned M'Grane's face.
"He said," answered Ned, as he folded his arms and leaned his broad
shoulder against the wall, "that you've got the best son-in-law in
Ireland, an' that Seumas Shanley has the purtiest an' the sweetest
little wife that ever stepped in shoe leather!"
"What do you mean, man; what do you mean?" cried Larry in an angry and
excited tone, as he gripped the blacksmith by the arm. "Are you mad,
Ned M'Grane?"
"No, Larry, my decent man; I'm not mad, an' I only mean what I say, an'
that is that the best part o' the charm that's after bein' worked is
that while you were gettin' the pain taken out o' your jaw here, your
daughter and Seumas Shanley were gettin' the pain taken out o' their
hearts by Father Martin above at the chapel--long life to them!
"The boys an' girls o' Drumberagh are dancin' at their weddin' for
the last half-hour, an' every tongue in the country is talkin' o' the
Blacksmith's Charm."
HOW JIMMY SETTLED THE SOJER
It would be very unjust to say that Ned M'Grane was insufferably vain
on account of his storytelling abilities, or that he was a bore who
insisted, whenever he could find an audience, on relating some of his
wonderful and thrilling experiences, as a goodly number of those who
pose as storytellers are in the habit of doing. That wasn't the way
with Ned at all: he had acquired all his pleasant stories, or most of
them, while he was a boy, unspoiled by travel or by contact with the
"clever" world; and it never struck him that he occupied a unique or
exalted position in the Glen on account of this, because the gift had
come to him naturally, and had been cultivated at a time when there was
a seanchaidhe by every hearth, and life and vivacity in the country to
provide plenty of material for stories. And in reference to the second
matter--the supposition or suspicion in the minds of my readers that
Ned was a bore--if such a suspicion exists, there is no foundation
whatever for it. Ned M'Grane was not a bore by any means: I never knew
him to volunteer the telling of a story, and I think that if we were to
remain in the forge for hours each evening and not ask for a story we
should never have heard one. I firmly believe that if Ned were to think
for a moment that while we listened to his stories we were under the
impression, in our own minds, that he was "showin' off" all he knew--I
firmly believe that then and there he would have made a vow never again
to tell us a story, and I know he would have kept that vow, because Ned
M'Grane was a man of his word. Whenever an occasion arose that would
suggest a story (we never asked him direct for one) we cautiously felt
our way, and then, if we saw that we were on safe ground, we asked him
as delicately as we could, to give us the pleasure of listening to one
of his stories, and I have never known him to deny us that pleasure.
He knew that we hungered for the tales, and his heart was too big and
too kind to allow him to refrain from an act that was likely to give
pleasure to anyone. There never beat a warmer, kinder heart than that
which throbbed beneath Ned M'Grane's torn and soot-stained coat.
Joe Clinton was telling us one evening about a narrow escape he and Tom
Brangan and a couple more of the boys had the night before in Rowan's
demesne when they went to set their rabbit-snares, and very nearly fell
into the hands of the police from Castletown, who had been told by the
old Major to keep a look-out for poachers.
"We were just gettin' across the wall below at the dark avenue," Joe
told us; "Tom was inside in the wood an' I was on top o' the wall, an'
Phil Geraghty an' Andy Reilly was on the road, when we heard the sprigs
cracklin' an' breakin' in the wood an' out comes a sheep, runnin' like
from the lawn as if somethin' was after frightenin' her, an' then when
the moon came out a bit from behind a cloud, didn't we see the two
boyos tryin' to steal unknownst to us, along the brink o' the wood. I'm
sure they heard me talkin' down to the lads on the road--an' Tom had
only time to climb up the wall an' jump down after me, when we heard
them tearin' in thro' the leaves an' brosna, an' sure we ran like a
go-as-you-please race, an' the dickens a one of us was to be seen when
they got as far as the wall."
"Only for the sheep you'd be nabbed," said Seumas Shanley.
"Oh, they had us as neat as could be, an' our darlin' han'ful o' new
snares along with us," said Joe, "only that they frightened the sheep
in the right time. She was a lucky sheep for us anyway."
"Sheep an' goats must be good to poachers always," said Ned M'Grane, as
he let the hammer rest on the anvil, and cast the horse-shoe on which
he had been working into the trough, "for 'twas Tim Brogan's old white
goat that nearly thumped the life out o' the Scotch game-keeper that
was in Archdale's, an' he runnin' after young Joe Magee long ago, an'
'twas a ram that saved Jimmy the Thrick when the Sojer M'Keon came at
him an' he after killin' the two hares above on the Mullagh. The sheep
an' goats must have a grâdh for the poachers, I'm thinkin'."
At the mention of "Jimmy the Thrick" we cocked our ears, because we
knew that whenever Ned spoke of Jimmy he had a story to tell about him,
and we knew that a story in which Jimmy figured was sure to be a good
one. So we cocked our ears while Joe Clinton was asking Ned how the ram
managed to save Jimmy from his enemies, and we were, I need hardly
say, delighted when we noticed that Ned took out his pipe and commenced
to fill it before he made any reply.
"There wasn't in all Ireland, I think, a poacher that had as much
darin' in him as Jimmy the Thrick when he was a young fellow. There
wasn't a hare or a rabbit in the country safe from him, an' neither
gamekeeper nor peeler could ever lay hands on him. He was within an ace
o' bein' caught as often as he has fingers an' toes on his body, an'
every time, by hook or by crook, he'd dodge the peelers an' get away
from them, an' every gamekeeper in the country 'd swear to you at the
time that if there ever was a divil in Ireland that divil was Jimmy
Malone. A hundred times they set traps for him an' failed to catch him.
He'd take the hares an' rabbits from under their very noses almost,
an' he often had a snare set above at Rowan's hall-door, but catch or
catch they couldn't do on him. He could run as fast as a hare himself,
an' he had more tricks an' dodges an' plans in his head than any hare
that ever lay in a form. Sure one day an' the huntsmen an' the beagles
in full cry after a hare below in Hoey's Bottom, didn't he watch beside
a little gap in the wall that he knew she'd go through, and had a sack
opened, with the mouth of it round the hole, an' when the poor hare
came along at full speed thro' the gap, where did she go only right
into the sack, an' Jimmy had her at home in his own house before the
huntsmen knew that the hounds were after losin' the trail. Oh, he was
a holy terror, the same Jimmy, but he was that lively an' full o'
divilment an' fun, but with no bad turn in him, that the dickens a one
in the country 'd say a word against him or give a hint o' where he'd
be to peeler or anyone else.
"Well, one summer there came home a fellow that was after bein' a sojer
out in India or somewhere--his name was Jack M'Keon, but no one called
him anythin' only the Sojer M'Keon--an' o' course none o' the young
fellows about 'd be seen in his company an' he after takin' John Bull's
shillin' an' fightin' against them that never done him or his country
any harm, so who did he get in with only Tony Smith that was gamekeeper
in Rowan's at the time, an' it seems Tony promised to get him a job
as a sort of under-gamekeeper after a while, because he used to do
anythin' Tony 'd ask him to do; an' one o' the things was to pimp after
and watch Jimmy Malone, an' to nab him in the act o' poachin' if he
could.
"'Twas easy enough to make the Sojer do that, because he hated Jimmy
from the time they used to be goin' to school in Kilfane together, an'
had some row or other, an' along with that, too, M'Keon began skulkin'
after a girl that Jimmy was fond of--Julia Dermody, that's his wife
this thirty years nearly--an' that made the two o' them bitter enemies.
M'Keon had some money after comin' home, wherever he got it--some used
to say he robbed it, but no one was certain--an' old Hugh Dermody
was more inclined to give him Julia than he was to give her to Jimmy
Malone, because Jimmy was poor, an' old Dermody was a miser always.
Julia 'd marry no one only Jimmy, but M'Keon thought that if he got
him into jail for poachin' she'd be so much ashamed of it that she'd
give him up an' marry himself. So you might say it was a bitter bit
o' dodgin' between the peelers an' old Tony Smith an' the Sojer M'Keon
against poor Jimmy the Thrick, an' only for he was the man he was, he'd
spend many a long day in jail for his poachin'. But it was easier to
catch a hare than to catch Jimmy Malone, so it was, an' many a hard run
the Sojer M'Keon had after him for nothin', an' many a laugh there was
through the country over Jimmy an' his tricks. An' the best of it was
that the Sojer himself used to be poachin' as much as Jimmy, an' well
the peelers knew that, an' the dickens a much of a grádh they had for
him.
"Well, one fine July mornin' about four o'clock, Jimmy went over to
the off side o' the Mullaghs to the farthest field next to Appleby's
land--'twas called the Sheep Field that time as well as now, an' the
Mullaghs belonged to the Rowans o' course--to look at a few snares he
was after settin' in it the night before, an' didn't he get two darlin'
fine hares an' they just nearly dead with the pullin' an' tuggin'
they had to get away. Jimmy wasn't long finishin' them, and he was
crossin' back next the wood again when all of a sudden he heard the
racin' up behind him, an' before he could turn round he got a bump that
lifted him off his feet, and then another, an' the next minute he was
sprawlin' on the ground an' a big black-faced ram o' the old Major's
standin' over him an' lookin' at him as much as to say, 'You're downed
at last, Jimmy Malone!' Jimmy used to tell me after that he could read
the very words in the ram's eyes the same as if he was sayin' them.
"'Your behaviour was very unfair, sir,' says Jimmy to the boyo, an' he
risin' to his feet, 'but I'll be expectin' your salute the next time,
an' I don't think you'll have the pleasure o' givin' it. Just gi'me a
fair start, an' see which of us'll be at the wood first. Now, one, two,
three, an' off we go.' An' Jimmy started to run quicker nor ever he
went before, but he wasn't two minutes runnin' when he got the thump
again an' down he had to flop a second time in spite of himself, an'
there was the ram standin' over him an' his eyes sayin', 'It's not the
Sojer M'Keon or the peelers that's in it this time, Jimmy,' an' all my
poor Jimmy could do was groan an' feel himself where he was sore.
"'This won't do for Jimmy Malone, if he doesn't want to be caught, so
you'll allow me to lead you to the ditch,' says Jimmy, catchin' hold o'
the ram's horns, an' startin' to drag him along as well as he could,
an' the bucko draggin' against him. If he got him as far as the wood he
knew he'd be all right, because he could manage to get away from him,
but in the open field there was no chance. So there was Jimmy with his
two hands grippin' the ram's horns, an' the hares tied round his waist,
an' he tryin' to coax the lad over to the edge o' the wood till he'd
get away from him.
"He was about three hundred yards from the wood, an' the ram stickin'
his feet in the ground an' refusin' to budge an inch, when who did he
see comin' across the field at full trot only the Sojer M'Keon an'
he leerin' like a monkey. Jimmy got a bit of a start when he saw him
first, because he thought the peelers 'd be with him, but when he knew
there was only the Sojer in it, he was delighted instead o' bein'
afraid.
"The Sojer came up to him, an' a big stick in his hand an' he chucklin'
an' grinnin' with delight.
"'Ha, ha, Mister Malone,' says he to Jimmy, 'you're nabbed at last.
'Twasn't enough to be snarin' the Major's hares an' rabbits, but you
must turn to stealin' his mountainy sheep. Gettin' a likin' for mutton,
is that it, Mister Malone? They'll hardly give you any mutton in jail,
though, unless Julia an' myself sends you a bit o' what we'll have
at the weddin'. No girl 'd like to marry a sheep-stealer; would she,
Mister Malone?'
"Jimmy was ragin', but he knew that if it came to a fight with M'Keon
the Sojer 'd beat him, because he was a powerful big man, an' along
with that if the peelers came an' they squabblin', M'Keon 'd accuse him
o' sheep-stealin' an' poachin' an' he'd be done for. So he kept his
temper, an' says he, real quiet an' humble like:
"'You have me this time, Jack,' says he, 'but what's the use o'
tormentin' a fellow. I gave the whole lot o' you a good run for it,
anyway, an' I'm not goin' to cry over it. An' sure if Julia Dermody
doesn't want me she can have the man that caught me, an' welcome.
There's your friends, the peelers, comin', an' you can call them to
arrest me.'
"'Where?--where are they? Where are they?' says the Sojer, turnin'
round, an' he real excited an' like as if he was frightened.
"As soon as he turned round, Jimmy let go his hold o' the ram's horns
an' away with him for the wood, racin' faster than ever he went in his
life before. M'Keon got as big a surprise as the 'sheep,' as he took
Jimmy's gentleman friend to be, but as soon as he saw the dodge, off he
started after him an' he shoutin' to him to stop. He couldn't run well,
though, because he was stiff an' lazy, an' the dickens a very far he
went when he got a thump from the ram's horns that made him yell, an'
the next minute there he was stretched at full length on the grass, an'
the ram standin' over him as mild as you please. The Sojer gave him a
string of army curses an' up he jumps again an' after Jimmy--the boyo
was within a few perch o' the wood an' he runnin' for the bare life an'
never lookin' behind him--but the dickens a far Mister M'Keon went till
the ram was up with him an' had him stretched on the grass the same as
before, an' he cursin' for all he was worth.
"When Jimmy got into the shelter o' the wood he drew his breath an'
looked round, an' there he saw my brave Sojer an' he havin' a hold o'
the ram's horns the same as he was himself a few minutes before that
an' he pullin' at his best an' the ram pullin' against him, an' risin'
with every jump now an' again that nearly lifted the Sojer off his feet.
"Jimmy couldn't help laughin' if all the peelers in Ireland was in the
wood behind him, when he saw the way the ram had the life frightened
out o' the Sojer.
"'So you're goin' to have mutton at the weddin', Mister M'Keon,' says
he, 'an' you'll maybe send a bit to the sheep-stealer an' he in jail?
That's very kind o' you entirely, an' I must tell Julia when I see
her, in case you'd forget it. I'm afraid a ram 'd be middlin' tough
eatin' though--even for a sojer. Will you stay there till I go home
for my camera, an' I'll take your photograph an' show it to Julia?
Ah! can't you let the poor old ram go; sure he can't give evidence
against the notorious sheep-stealer, Jimmy Malone. Let him go, an' come
over here, an' I'll give you the hares. You won't? Well, I'll have to
be sayin' good mornin', Mister M'Keon, an' I hope you'll enjoy the
game-keepin' if you get it. If I see your friends, the peelers, I'll
send them to your assistance. Good mornin', Mister M'Keon.'
"An' off went Jimmy as fast as he could leg it, an' 'twas well for him
he did, because the peelers wasn't as far away as he thought they were.
The Major sent for them to come over early that mornin' to see where
some one tore up a lot o' young trees that he was after gettin' planted
above on the side o' the Mullagh, an' when himself an' them came into
the Sheep Field didn't they see the Sojer M'Keon an' he beatin' the
Major's prize ram with a big stick an' tryin' to drag him over to the
ditch. The Sojer was in such a temper with the ram that he never saw
them until they were up beside him, an' sure he nearly fell with the
start he got when the Major roared at him to let go the ram. Only for
the peelers the Major 'd kill him. The Sojer went to tell the story o'
catchin' Jimmy Malone, but sure they thought it was all a make-up, an'
they arrested him on the spot for abusin' the ram, an' along with that
he had a couple o' score o' snares tied round his waist an' a fine big
hare under his coat. It was found out, too, that it was him rooted up
the young trees an' sold them to a man in Castletown, an' 'gorra if he
didn't get six months in jail, an' only he was a sojer they'd give him
five years. He never came back here again, an' the dickens a one was
sorry for him, because he was a bad weed.
"An' that's how Jimmy settled the Sojer."
THE CONFISCATED BACON
The coaxing of a story from Ned M'Grane, the blacksmith, was
sometimes the easiest matter in the world, and sometimes a task in
the accomplishing of which all the tact and diplomacy of a Government
Ambassador would be absolutely essential. It all depended on the humour
he was in at the time. If things had gone well with him during the day;
if he hadn't been disappointed in getting coal from the town or if
nobody had come to ask him in an aggrieved tone, "Why the blazes aren't
you doin' them wheels for me?" or if nobody had told him that another
penny in the pound had been added to the taxation of Ireland or that
some Englishman had said the Irish were only a pack of savages until
the English, out of pure charity, came over and civilised them. If none
of these things occurred to rile Ned M'Grane, we had no difficulty
whatever in getting a story from him whenever we went to the forge;
and that was almost every evening throughout the winter months, and
sometimes in the summer, too, when the ground was too wet for the
hurling.
'Twas easy to know when he was in bad humour. He hardly seemed to hear
our conversation at all, but worked away in silence, broken now and
then by short and vigorous comments on the matter that had vexed him
during the day, such as "Who the dickens cares about him or his wheels?
I'd be rich if I was dependin' on his custom--heh!" or "What'll
they do next, I wonder? Make us pay rates for every time we say our
prayers?--the pack o' robbers. I wish I had some o' their heads under
this!" And then there would be a crashing blow on the anvil that shook
the forge and awakened memories of the Blacksmith of Limerick who
crushed the heads of the Williamites with his sledge, long ago. On such
occasions we never attempted to engage Ned in conversation until his
work for the day was finished, and the pipe and tobacco were called
into requisition. Even then, if we saw by his manner or his countenance
that a dark memory of the matters that had disturbed him during the day
remained in his mind, we wisely refrained from beating about the bush
for a story.
Ned's dark moods, however, were rare, and his grand, hearty laughter
and sparkling wit and delightful stories, when in his usual form, more
than compensated for them, and never allowed us to adversely criticise
them, no matter how dark or fierce they might be; and then we, young
fellows, loved Ned M'Grane as devotedly and as warmly as he loved us.
One evening in the springtime we were gathered as usual in the forge,
after a good, long day's work in the fields, and Ned was very busy with
plough accessories and harrow pins and other farming implements, but
he was in the best of humour all the same. He joked some of us about
getting married, sang snatches of songs in his big, rich voice, and
laughed at some of the news we had brought him with the gay vivacity
of a boy. There wasn't a subject under the sun but was debated in the
forge, and Ned's witticisms remained in all our minds long after the
matters debated had been forgotten.
"I wonder how many'll take the advice Father Martin gave last Sunday
about the killin' o' the pigs," said Matty Reilly, as he fiddled with a
lot of horse-shoe nails in a box.
"It's all very fine to be talkin'," said Jim Cassidy, "but if the
people kill their own pigs, what are they goin' to pay the rent with?"
"Didn't he tell them what they could do it with?" said Jack Dunne, as
he cleared the stem of his pipe with a very fine piece of wire which
Ned always kept by him for that purpose; "didn't he tell them that
they could pay the rent with the money they give to the shopkeepers
for bad American bacon that's pisinin' their blood an' that there's no
nourishment in? An' sure he said the truth. You might as well be eatin'
roasted beech-leaves as some o' the bacon you'd get in shops. The divil
another bit of it'll come into our house, if we were never to pay the
rent."
"If you saw Peadar Byrne," said Bartle Gormley, from a corner, "when
Father Martin was talkin' about the killin' o' the pigs, an' the savin'
o' the money. He could only catch an odd word, an' he had the bothered
ear cocked in a way that I never saw it at the readin' o' the Gospel."
"Maybe," said Ned, with a comical look, "maybe he thought there was
pigs goin' for nothin', an' that he'd miss one if he didn't listen."
The discussion ended in a laugh, as all discussions usually did when
Ned M'Grane had spoken, and every man started to light his pipe. Ned
worked on in silence for a while, and after a long spell, during which
there came no remark from him, he said, in careless fashion:
"I wonder was Jimmy Malone--Jimmy the Thrick--listenin' to Father
Martin talkin' about the bacon?"
"He was then," said Bartle Gormley, "because I saw him leanin' over the
seat down near the door an' whisperin' somethin' to Andy Cregan, an'
whatever it was the two o' them was laughin' over it when they came out
on the road."
"I know what he was whisperin' about," said Ned, "an' so well he might
laugh, because the bacon he used to get above twenty years ago was
better an' cheaper than ever he ate since. He wouldn't get anyone
simple enough now to give him bacon for nothin'."
"An' how did he get it for nothin' that time, Ned?" asked Bartle, and
as he spoke all other conversation was suspended, and we gathered in
close to the anvil, apparently careless, but every mother's son of us
eager as could be for the story which we knew from experience lay at
the back of Ned's remark on Jimmy Malone's behaviour.
"Do you remember Neddy an' Phil M'Govern that died within a week of
each other, just this time two years?" asked Ned.
Of course we had all known the two old brothers and their eccentric
ways, and had often peeped in at them as they argued by the fire, and
we told Ned as much.
"Well, they were just as odd an' as comical in their ways when they
were close on fifty years of age as when eighty was drawin' near them,
an' if I could only remember them, I know as many stories about Neddy
an' Phil as would keep me talkin' for a whole week without stoppin'.
They were the queerest couple ever walked in shoe leather or bare
feet--may God be good to them this night. At the time I'm goin' to
tell you about they didn't live together, as they did when you knew
them. Phil lived with an old uncle o' his beyond at Hogan's well, where
you'll see the walls o' the house standin' still, and Neddy lived by
himself in the house on the hill there above, where they died, an'
where Tom M'Dermott, their sister's son, is livin' now. Neither one
nor th' other o' them ever got married, because I suppose no girl
'd have them (you needn't laugh)--some people 'd say because they'd
begrudge spendin' any money on the weddin', but I don't believe that,
as hard as they were--and the way they had o' livin' was as comical
as ever you knew. Jimmy the Thrick, to give him the name he was best
known by in his young days, lived over there on the hill, not far away
from Neddy--that was, of course, before he married into the wife's
place--an' he'd tell you stones about Neddy's housekeepin' that'd make
you laugh if you had the toothache. An' the best o' them all is the
story that Jimmy himself had most to do with.
"Jimmy, you must know, was a terrible playboy at that time an' nobody
was safe from his tricks. He couldn't rest at night unless he was after
makin' a fool o' somebody, or after playin' some trick durin' the day.
He was never easy, mornin', noon or night.
"The people long ago used to kill their own pigs, an' you'd never see
backs of American bacon hangin' up in country houses like you do now,
an' signs on it, everyone was twice as healthy. 'Twas the talk about
what Father Martin said last Sunday that put this story about Neddy an'
Phil an' Jimmy into my head. On account of only the two o' them an' the
old uncle bein' in it, they used only kill one pig between them every
year an' divide it. Neddy'd kill one this year, an' send the half of
it over to Phil an' the uncle, an' whatever he had too much after that
he'd give to the sister that was married in Knockbride; then the next
year Phil 'd kill a pig an' send the half of it to Neddy, an' so on.
"This year, anyway, that I'm talkin' about, it happened that it was
Neddy's turn to kill the pig, an' what do you think but one o' the
shopkeepers in Castletown said to him that if he was thinkin' o'
killin' a pig that year an' didn't want it all, that he had a customer
that wanted a piece o' home-cured bacon, an' would give the highest
price for it. Neddy wasn't very rich, an' he thought to himself when
he came home that if he could get out o' the obligation o' givin' half
the pig to Phil, he'd be all right. He could make a couple o' pound for
himself an' have enough o' bacon for the year as well. What was he to
do at all? The only thing he could think of was to pretend to sell it
along with the other pig at the fair that was near at hand. But then
Phil 'd be at the fair an' helpin' to make the bargain, an' he'd see
that only one o' the pigs was sold. He couldn't hit on a plan of any
kind that'd be good enough, an' he was goin' to give up in despair when
who comes in but my brave Jimmy Malone--'twas evenin' time--to have a
smoke an' to warm his shins at Neddy's fire.
"Neddy knew that Jimmy was never at a loss for a plan for anythin' an'
he ups an' tells him the story o' the pig an' the terrible puzzle he
was in. Jimmy listened with great attention, an' was very simple an'
solemn-lookin', but the divilment came into his head, an' says he to
Neddy, when he heard the whole story: