Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
HANDY ANDY
A Tale of Irish Life
In Two Volumes--Volume Two
The Collected Writings Of Samuel Lover (V. 4)
[Illustration: Tom Organ Loftus' Coldairian System]
[Illustration: Tom Connor's Cat]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS VOLUME TWO
Tom Organ Loftus' Coldairian System
Tom Connor's Cat
Andy's Cooking Extraordinary
Tom Organ Loftus and the Duke
The Abduction
A Crack Shot
The Challenge
The Party at Killarney
_Etched by W. H. W. Bicknell from drawings by Samuel Lover_
CHAPTER XXII
The night was pitch dark, and on rounding the adjacent corner no vehicle
could be seen; but a peculiar whistle from Dick was answered by the
sound of approaching wheels and the rapid footfalls of a horse, mingled
with the light rattle of a smart gig. On the vehicle coming up, Dick
took his little mare, that was blacker than the night, by the head, the
apron of the gig was thrown down, and out jumped a smart servant-boy.
“You have the horse ready, too, Billy?”
“Yis, sir,” said Billy, touching his hat.
“Then follow, and keep up with me, remember.”
“Yis, sir.”
“Come to her head, here,” and he patted the little mare's neck as he
spoke with a caressing “whoa,” which was answered by a low neigh of
satisfaction, while the impatient pawing of her fore foot showed the
animal's desire to start. “What an impatient little devil she is,” said
Dick, as he mounted the gig; “I'll get in first, Murphy, as I'm going
to drive. Now up with you--hook on the apron--that's it--are you all
right?”
“Quite,” said Murphy.
“Then you be into your saddle and after us, Billy,” said Dick; “and now
let her go.”
Billy gave the little black mare her head, and away she went, at a
slapping pace, the fire from the road answering the rapid strokes of
her nimble feet. The servant then mounted a horse which was tied to
a neighbouring palisade, and had to gallop for it to come up with his
master, who was driving with a swiftness almost fearful, considering the
darkness of the night and the narrowness of the road he had to traverse,
for he was making the best of his course by cross-ways to an adjacent
roadside inn, where some non-resident electors were expected to arrive
that night by a coach from Dublin; for the county town had every nook
and cranny occupied, and this inn was the nearest point where they could
get any accommodation.
Now don't suppose that they were electors whom Murphy and Dick in their
zeal for their party were going over to greet with hearty welcomes and
bring up to the poll the next day. By no means. They were the friends
of the opposite party, and it was with the design of retarding their
movements that this night's excursion was undertaken. These electors
were a batch of plain citizens from Dublin, whom the Scatterbrain
interest had induced to leave the peace and quiet of the city to tempt
the wilds of the country at that wildest of times--during a contested
election; and a night coach was freighted inside and out with the worthy
cits, whose aggregate voices would be of immense importance the next
day; for the contest was close, the county nearly polled out, and
but two days more for the struggle. Now, to intercept these plain
unsuspecting men was the object of Murphy, whose well-supplied
information had discovered to him this plan of the enemy, which he set
about countermining. As they rattled over the rough by-roads, many a
laugh did the merry attorney and the untameable Dick the Devil exchange,
as the probable success of their scheme was canvassed, and fresh
expedients devised to meet the possible impediments which might
interrupt them. As they topped a hill Murphy pointed out to his
companion a moving light in the plain beneath.
“That's the coach, Dick--there are the lamps, we're just in time--spin
down the hill, my boy--let me get in as they're at supper, and 'faith
they'll want it, after coming off a coach such a night as this, to say
nothing of some of them being aldermen in expectancy perhaps, and of
course obliged to play trencher-men as often as they can, as a requisite
rehearsal for the parts they must hereafter fill.”
In fifteen minutes more Dick pulled up before a small cabin within a
quarter of a mile of the inn, and the mounted servant tapped at the
door, which was immediately opened, and a peasant, advancing to the gig,
returned the civil salutation with which Dick greeted his approach.
“I wanted to be sure you were ready, Barny.”
“Oh, do you think I'd fail you, Misther Dick, your honour?”
“I thought you might be asleep, Barny.”
“Not when you bid me wake, sir; and there's a nice fire ready for you,
and as fine a dhrop o' _potteen_ as ever tickled your tongue, sir.”
“You're the lad, Barny!--good fellow--I'll be back with you by-and-by;”
and off whipped Dick again.
After going about a quarter of a mile further, he pulled up, alighted
with Murphy from the gig, unharnessed the little black mare, and then
overturned the gig into the ditch.
“That's as natural as life,” said Dick.
“What an escape of my neck I've had!” said Murphy.
“Are you much hurt?” said Dick.
“A trifle lame only,” said Murphy, laughing and limping.
“There was a great _boccagh_ [Footnote: Lame beggar.] lost in you,
Murphy. Wait; let me rub a handful of mud on your face--there--you have
a very upset look, 'pon my soul,” said Dick, as he flashed the light of
his lantern on him for a moment, and laughed at Murphy scooping the mud
out of his eye, where Dick had purposely planted it.
“Devil take you,” said Murtough; “that's too natural.”
“There's nothing like looking your part,” said Dick.
“Well, I may as well complete my attire,” said Murtough, so he lay down
in the road and took a roll in the mud; “that will do,” said he; “and
now, Dick, go back to Barny and the mountain dew, while I storm the
camp of the Philistines. I think in a couple of hours you may be on the
look-out for me; I'll signal you from the window, so now good bye;”
and Murphy, leading the mare, proceeded to the inn, while Dick, with a
parting “Luck to you, my boy,” turned back to the cottage of Barny.
The coach had set down six inside and ten out passengers (all voters)
about ten minutes before Murphy marched up to the inn door, leading the
black mare, and calling “ostler” most lustily. His call being answered
for “the beast,” “the man” next demanded attention; and the landlord
wondered all the wonders he could cram into a short speech, at seeing
Misther Murphy, sure, at such a time; and the sonsy landlady, too,
was all lamentations for his illigant coat and his poor eye, sure, all
ruined with the mud:--and what was it at all? an upset, was it? oh,
wirra! and wasn't it lucky he wasn't killed, and they without a spare
bed to lay him out dacent if he was--sure, wouldn't it be horrid for his
body to be only on sthraw in the barn, instead of the best feather-bed
in the house; and, indeed, he'd be welcome to it, only the gintlemen
from town had them all engaged.
“Well, dead or alive, I must stay here to-night, Mrs. Kelly, at all
events.”
“And what will you do for a bed?”
“A shake down in the parlour, or a stretch on a sofa, will do; my gig is
stuck fast in a ditch--my mare tired--ten miles from home--cold night,
and my knee hurt.” Murphy limped as he spoke.
“Oh! your poor knee,” said Mrs. Kelly; “I'll put a dhrop o' whisky and
brown paper on it, sure--”
“And what gentlemen are these, Mrs. Kelly, who have so filled your
house?”
“Gintlemen that came by the coach a while agone, and supping in the
parlour now, sure.”
“Would you give my compliments, and ask would they allow me, under the
present peculiar circumstances, to join them? and in the meantime, send
somebody down the road to take the cushions out of my gig; for there is
no use in attempting to get the gig out till morning.”
“Sartinly, Misther Murphy, we'll send for the cushions; but as for the
gentlemen, they are all on the other side.”
“What other side?”
“The Honourable's voters, sure.”
“Pooh! is that all?” said Murphy,--“I don't mind that, I've no objection
on that account; besides, _they_ need not know who _I_ am,” and he gave
the landlord a knowing wink, to which the landlord as knowingly returned
another.
The message to the gentlemen was delivered, and Murphy was immediately
requested to join their party; this was all he wanted, and he played off
his powers of diversion on the innocent citizens so successfully, that
before supper was half over they thought themselves in luck to have
fallen in with such a chance acquaintance. Murphy fired away jokes,
repartees, anecdotes, and country gossip, to their delight; and when the
eatables were disposed of, he started them on the punch-drinking tack
afterwards so cleverly, that he hoped to see three parts of them tipsy
before they retired to rest.
“Do you feel your knee better now, sir?” asked one of the party, of
Murphy.
“Considerably, thank you; whisky punch, sir, is about the best cure for
bruises or dislocations a man can take.”
“I doubt that, sir,” said a little matter-of-fact man, who had now
interposed his reasonable doubts for the twentieth time during Murphy's
various extravagant declarations, and the interruption only made Murphy
romance the more.
“_You_ speak of your fiery _Dublin_ stuff, sir; but our country whisky
is as mild as milk, and far more wholesome; then, sir, our fine air
alone would cure half the complaints without a grain of physic.”
“I doubt that, sir!” said the little man.
“I assure you, sir, a friend of my own from town came down here last
spring on crutches, and from merely following a light whisky diet and
sleeping with his window open, he was able to dance at the race ball in
a fortnight; as for this knee of mine, it's a trifle, though it was a
bad upset too.”
“How did it happen, sir? Was it your horse--or your harness--or your
gig--or--”
“None o' them, sir; it was a _Banshee_.”
“A Banshee!” said the little man; “what's that?”
“A peculiar sort of supernatural creature that is common here, sir. She
was squatted down on one side of the road, and my mare shied at her,
and being a spirited little thing, she attempted to jump the ditch and
missed it in the dark.”
“Jump a ditch, with a gig after her, sir?” said the little man.
“Oh, common enough to do that here, sir; she'd have done it easy in the
daylight, but she could not measure her distance in the dark, and bang
she went into the ditch: but it's a trifle, after all. I am generally
run over four or five times a year.”
“And you alive to tell it!” said the little man, incredulously.
“It's hard to kill us here, sir, we are used to accidents.”
“Well, the worst accident I ever heard of,” said one of the citizens,
“happened to a friend of mine, who went to visit a friend of his on a
Sunday, and all the family happened to be at church; so on driving into
the yard there was no one to take his horse, therefore he undertook
the office of ostler himself, but being unused to the duty, he most
incautiously took off the horse's bridle before unyoking him from his
gig, and the animal, making a furious plunge forward--my friend being
before him at the time--the shaft of the gig was driven through his
body, and into the coach-house gate behind him, and stuck so fast that
the horse could not drag it out after; and in this dreadful situation
they remained until the family returned from church, and saw the awful
occurrence. A servant was despatched for a doctor, and the shaft was
disengaged, and drawn out of the man's body--just at the pit of the
stomach; he was laid on a bed, and every one thought of course he must
die at once, but he didn't; and the doctor came next day, and he wasn't
dead--did what he could for him--and, to make a long story short, sir,
the man recovered.”
“Pooh! pooh!” said the diminutive doubter.
“It's true,” said the narrator.
“I make no doubt of it, sir,” said Murphy; “I know a more extraordinary
case of recovery myself.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the cit; “I have not finished my story
yet, for the most extraordinary part of the story remains to be told;
my friend, sir, was a very sickly man before the accident happened--a
_very_ sickly man, and after that accident he became a hale healthy man.
What do you think of that, sir?”
“It does not surprise me in the least, sir,” said Murphy; “I can account
for it readily.”
“Well, sir, I never heard It accounted for, though I know it to be true;
I should like to hear how you account for it?”
“Very simply, sir,” said Murphy; “don't you perceive the man discovered
a _mine_ of health by a _shaft_ being sunk in the _pit_ of his stomach?”
Murphy's punning solution of the cause of cure was merrily received by
the company, whose critical taste was not of that affected nature
which despises _jeu de mots_, and _will not_ be satisfied under a _jeu
d'esprit_; the little doubting man alone refused to be pleased.
“I doubt the value of a pun always, sir. Dr. Johnson said, sir--”
“I know,” said Murphy; “that the man who would make a pun would pick
a pocket; that's old, sir,--but is dearly remembered by all those who
cannot make puns themselves.”
“Exactly,” said one of the party they called Wiggins. “It is the old
story of the fox and the grapes. Did you ever hear, sir, the story of
the fox and the grapes? The fox one day was--”
“Yes, yes,” said Murphy, who, fond of absurdity as he was, could _not_
stand the fox and the grapes by way of something new.
“They're sour, said the fox.”
“Yes,” said Murphy, “a capital story.”
“Oh, them fables is so good!” said Wiggins.
“All nonsense!” said the diminutive contradictor.
“Nonsense, nothing but nonsense; the ridiculous stuff of birds and
beasts speaking! As if any one could believe such stuff.”
“I do--firmly--for one,” said Murphy.
“You do?” said the little man.
“I do--and do you know why?”
“I cannot indeed conceive,” said the little man, with a bitter grin.
“It is, sir, because I myself know a case that occurred in this very
country of a similar nature.”
“Do you want to make me believe you knew a fox that spoke, sir?” said
the mannikin, almost rising into anger.
“Many, sir,” said Murphy, “many.”
“Well! after that!” said the little man.
“But the case I immediately allude to is not of a fox, but a cat,” said
Murphy.
“A cat? Oh, yes--to be sure--a cat speak, indeed!” said the little
gentleman.
“It is a fact, sir,” said Murphy; “and if the company would not object
to my relating the story, I will state the particulars.”
The proposal was received with acclamation; and Murphy, in great
enjoyment of the little man's annoyance, cleared his throat, and made
all the preparatory demonstrations of a regular _raconteur_; but, before
he began, he recommended the gentlemen to mix fresh tumblers all round
that they might have nothing to do but listen and drink silently. “For
of all things in the world,” said Murtough, “I hate a song or a story to
be interrupted by the rattle of spoons.”
They obeyed; and while they are mixing their punch, we will just turn
over a fresh page, and devote a new Chapter to the following
MARVELLOUS LEGEND