"I am seeking a little contrivance, ma'am, that will let me enjoy the world and live easy in it. That is my aspiration."
"I'll give you what you are seeking," and she gave him a wee bottle with red juices in it.
"Indeed, ma'am, I'm obliged to ye," and he took her by the hand and wished her Good day and Good luck, and that he might meet her again.
When he got the elixir of youth he gave over his searching. He hid the bottle in his breast and went up into the mountains as high as he could go to bide the coming of the little old man. It is a queer thing but Tom Toole had never heard the name of him—it would be some place in the foreign corners of the world like Portugal that he had come from no doubt. Up he went; first there was rough pasture for bullocks, then fern and burnt furze, and then little but heather, and great rocks strewn about like shells, and sour brown streams coming from the bog. He wandered about for twenty days and the old man did not return, and for forty days he was still alone.
"The divil receive him, but I'll die against his return!" And Tom Toole pulled the wee bottle from his breast. He was often minded to lift the cork and take a sup of the elixir of youth. "But," says he, "it would be an unfriendly deed. Sure if I got me youth sudden I'd be off to the wonders of the land and leave that old fool roaming till the day of Judgment." And he would put the bottle away and wait for scores of days until he was sick and sorry with grieving. A thousand days he was on his lonely wanderings, soft days as mellow as cream, and hard days when it is ribs of iron itself you would want to stiffen you against the crack of the blast. His skimpy hair grew down to the lappet of his coat, very ugly he was, but the little stranger sheep of the mountain were not daunted when he moved by, and even the flibeens had the soft call for him. A thousand days was in it, and then he said:
"Good evening to my good luck. I've had my enough of this. Sure I'll despise myself for evermore if I wait the tide of another drifting day. It's to-night I'll sleep in a neat bed with a quilt of down over me heart, for I'm going to be young again."
He crept down the mountain to a neat little town and went in a room in the public to have a cup of porter. A little forlorn old man also came in from the road and sat down beside, and when they looked at each other they each let out a groan. "Glory be!" says he. "Glory be," cried Tom Toole, "its the good little man in the heel of it. Where are ye from?"
"From the mountains."
"And what fortune is in it, did ye find the farm?"
"Divil a clod."