Dermot was tired from his combat. He went to the house, opened the door
and walked in. To his surprise he found himself surrounded by hundreds
of little men, reaching no higher than his knee. They were wild, shaggy
little fellows, kept by the king to kill people he did not like. Though
not strong singly, they were there in such numbers that they could cover
a man like ants and crush the life out of him.
When Dermot had entered, the little men shut the door and barred it.
Then they began covering the windows and filling up the chinks between
the logs.
“Why are you going to such trouble?” asked Dermot. The antics of the
little fellows amused him. He never thought of treachery on the part of
the king.
“We fear you may escape,” answered one of the men. “It is our duty to
eat you.”
Poor foolish little fellows! They imagined a mighty hero like Dermot
could creep through a hole large enough to let one of them through.
Dermot’s amusement turned to anger. By all the laws of hospitality he
was entitled to a place to rest quietly until time for the next day’s
combat. The king would have lasted only a few minutes if Dermot could
have laid a hand on him when he discovered the foul scheme. The little
men rushed at him by the hundreds. There was little use of using a sword
against such small enemies. Dermot caught up the nearest by the ankles
and used him as a club to beat down the others.
Soon there were no little savages left except one very small fellow in
the corner.
“Spare me, great champion,” he called in a shrill, high voice. “If you
give me my life there is not a place to which you will go but I will be
with you. I will be a good servant to you.”
“No man ever asked for his life but I granted it,” said Dermot.
He sat down on a bench and looked about him. “Have you any food?” he
asked.
“Nothing,” said the small chief, for he was the leader of the small men.
“We never have food except the people the king sends us to eat. If you
will go out and walk forty paces to your right, you will come to the
king’s bakery. There you should be able to get some loaves.”
Dermot followed directions and found the king’s baker just closing up
for the night.
“Give me two loaves of bread,” demanded Dermot.
The baker let out a scream of rage. “Ruffian,” he yelled. “Do you dare
ask me for bread after the way you treated our soldiers today? Get out
of here this minute.”
The little man was dancing with rage. Dermot let out a roar of laughter.
He picked up the baker and held him at arms’ length. “You are a nimble
dancer,” he said. “I shall give you a place to dance.”
Opening the oven, now cool enough so that it would not injure him,
Dermot put the baker inside and shut the door. He helped himself to what
bread he wanted while the baker kept up an excited dancing, accompanied
by a steady pounding on the oven door.
But Dermot was not content to live on bread alone. He asked the small
chief where he might get some meat.
“Instead of turning to the right, as you did when you went to the
bakery, turn to the left and go the same distance in that direction.
That will bring you to the king’s butcher, where you should be able to
get plenty of meat.”
Dermot did as he was advised and found the man in his shop. He was a
big, red-faced fellow, smeared from head to foot with the blood of the
last animal he had killed.
“I want some meat for my supper,” said Dermot.
The butcher flew into a fine rage and brandished his knife. “Get out of
here, you ruffian from Erin!” he shouted. “It was you who wounded so
many of our people today. Get away before I cut out your heart.”
The butcher made a dash at Dermot. The latter was merely amused by the
rage of the man. He laughed loudly, took away the knife with one hand,
while with the other he caught the butcher by the belt and lifted him
off the floor. A meat hook on the wall was very handy. Dermot hooked the
belt of the butcher over that and left him hanging there, a funny sight
as he kicked and yelled. With the meat Dermot got from the shop, and the
bread, he and the small chief had a hearty supper.
The next day he again presented himself before the king.
“What do you want today?” asked the ruler of the White Nation.
“I want to see my chief, Finn MacCool, or to fight for him,” said
Dermot.
“Fight you shall,” declared the king. “You shall not see him.”
Then the king ordered sent out double the number of men that had faced
the champion the day before. He still had hopes that he could overpower
Dermot by numbers. But this battle was but a second like the one of the
day before. Dermot could not be wounded, while the slaughter of the
king’s soldiers was something terrible. With the setting of the sun the
combat was over, and Dermot went back to the long house to eat the
supper the small chief had prepared for him, and to rest after his hard
day.