“But what about Paddy?” Tim asked.
“And are ye sure it’s Paddy it is, and that it is by himself he is?” And then the old man added—“If it’s the Piper himself, I think bad not to give him the bit and the sup; but ye mustn’t let him in, Tim, for sure it’s Paddy has a baddish name, and if he’s found here we shall all swing for’t. But take the kay, my Boy, and let him into Katty’s shed, where he can be as comfortable, like, as the priest himself in his own bed, and he shall not go without his supper.”
Now Katty, you must know, was old Goff’s best and favourite cow, and as such had a shed to herself, to which Tim led the Piper; and when Paddy had a good large mug of whisky, he forgot that he was wet and cold. We will not assist at old Goff’s recovery from being “murthered quite,” but suppose him, as well as the others, safely in bed; and as we shall be busy with the Piper we will not disturb them till the morning.
Paddy was so warm and comfortable after his supper, but more particularly after the whisky, that he felt one drop more would make him the happiest man in all Ireland; but he dared not risk offending old Goff by disturbing him again, for he always found a good friend in him when his wanderings took him that way. What was to be done? He tried to sleep, but it would not do; though it was not the want of a bed that troubled him, for it was little Paddy knew of that, except by name, and, indeed, Katty gave him the best of accommodation; but yet the comfort was fast oozing out of him.
Now Paddy had a friend who, quietly and quite in private, distilled the best of spirit, and there was no fear of his being in bed—at least, not at night. True, he lived full four miles off, and most of the way lay across a dreary bog; but now that Paddy was once with him in imagination he found less rest than ever.
Tim had carefully locked Katty’s door; but, though old, the Piper was still active, so made nothing of clambering up to a hole in the roof—for where is the shed or cabin to be found in Ireland that has not a hole in the roof? if, indeed, what should be the roof is not one big hole. In dear old Ireland everything is old, excepting the hearts and spirits of its people. Once outside the shed, Paddy made the best of his way towards his friend’s; and expectation giving strength and activity to his legs, he ran briskly on, when, all at once, he was brought to a stand—not because he was out of breath from running, but from astonishment at the fruit borne by a sturdy old tree he had just reached.
A man, well and securely hanged, was dangling from a branch of the tree, with his toes most provokingly just beyond reach of the ground.
Paddy peered at him through the dark, to see which of his friends it was, and then addressed him thus:—“Och! Murphy, me lad! and is it yerself I run my nose agin here in the dark? but I forgie yer for not gettin’ out o’ the way, seeing that yer movements are not quite yer own. Now tell me what has brought yer here in this ugly fix? But how’s this?” he continued, examining his friend still more closely—“and was it for this dance yer put on them iligant boots? Why, Murphy, I shouldn’t know yer if I didn’t see that it’s yerself! But now,” Paddy continued, talking to himself, “his dance is over, and what will he be wanting with his boots? I’m sartain he won’t mind if I borrow them, for sure me own brogues are none of the best. But why, my auld Friend,” he said, again addressing the hanging man, “why didn’t yer put on yer Sunday best intirely, for yer no better than a scarecrow dangling there?”
Paddy examined himself from head to foot, and then, shaking his head, he muttered—“No, I canna better mesel’, ’cepting with the boots, which I’ll make bold to take, trusting poor Murphy won’t feel his feet cauld.” After thus alternately soliloquising and addressing his friend, Paddy set himself to work to pull off the dead man’s boots, but they resisted all his efforts. He took it good-humouredly and out of humour, but with equally bad success, and at length went on his way; but he could not make up his mind to resign such a splendid piece of good fortune, so he returned after he had gone a few steps, and made another attempt.
The boots, however, remained immoveable, and losing all patience, he exclaimed, “Bad luck to them!” and taking out a large knife he carried with him, cut off the legs just above the boots, thinking that, more at his leisure, he would be able to clear them out.