My grandfather, Andrew Coffey, was known to every one in the region
about his home as a quiet decent man. He was fond of rambling and
riding, and was familiar with every hill and dale, bog and pasture,
field and covert in that part of the country.
Then fancy his surprise, while riding only a few miles from home, one
evening, to find himself in a vicinity that he did not recognize at all.
His good horse was constantly stumbling against some tree or into some
bog-hole that by rights ought not to be there. To make matters worse, a
cold March wind was blowing, and rain began to pelt down.
Soon he was gladdened by the sight of a light among the trees in the
distance, and when he drew near he found a cabin, though for the life of
him he couldn't think how it came there. However, after tying his horse,
in he walked. A fire was blazing on the hearth, and near it was a
comfortable chair. But not a soul was there in the room.
He sat down and got a little warm and cheered after his drenching, but
all the while he was wondering and wondering. He was still puzzling over
his experiences when he heard a voice.
"Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey!" it said.
Good heavens! who was calling him, and not a soul in sight? Look around
as he might, he could find no one indoors or out. To add to his other
worries, his horse was gone. Again he heard the voice.
"_Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey!_ tell me a story," it said, and it spoke
louder than before.
What a thing to ask for! It was bad enough not to be left in peace
seated by the fire drying oneself, without being bothered for a story. A
third time the voice spoke, and louder than ever.
"Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey! tell me a story or it will be the worse
for you," it said.
My poor grandfather was so dumb-founded that he could only stand and
stare. For a fourth time the voice spoke.
"ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY!" it shouted, "I told you it would be the
worse for you."
Then a man bounced out from a cupboard that Andrew Coffey had not
noticed before. He was in a towering rage, and he carried as fine a
blackthorn club as was ever used to crack a man's head. When my
grandfather clapped eyes on him he knew him for Patrick Rooney who had
gone overboard one day in a sudden storm while fishing on the sea long
years ago.
Andrew Coffey did not stop to visit, but took to his heels and got out
of the house as quickly as he could. He ran and he ran taking little
thought of where he went till at last he ran against a tree. Then he sat
down to rest.
But he had been there only a few moments when he heard voices. One said,
"the vagabond is heavy."