“I never did?”
“No.”
“Then, bedad, I’ll tell it ye now.”
“Ah, do, Macarty; let’s have it.”
It’s a sort of legend, and may be ye never heard anything of the kind. It’s all about Jack Grady and the joiant. First and foremost ye must know Jack was mighty proud ov his size, and ov bein’, as he used to say, the greatest man in all Ireland, an’ sure enough he was tremendious big. He was more nor seven feet in hoigth, so I’ve been tould, and had a carcass on him like an eighteen-gallon kag.
“Oh, draw it mild!”
Ah, but I wouldn’t desave you, it’s thrue for him. Well, one day when Jack comes thrampin’ down into Leenane, to get himself measured for a pair of brogues, for he was mighty savin’ upon shoe leather, by raison of his weight, he goes into the shop of the brogue maker, wan Farrell by name, a little atom of a man, wid a sharp tongue of his own, who used to take grate divarsion out of big Jack, by gibin’ him an’ makin’ all sorts of dhroll collusions to his bulk and diminsions.
“Top of the mornin’ to you, Jack,” says Farrell.
“I think you might say Misther Grady to yer betthers,” returns Jack.
“My bethers! What d’ye say?” cries the little man. “And for why, now? Is it becase yer big and bulky, and ate more bacon for yer breakfast than would kape a family for a week? Arrah! what good are ye at all, at all, except in filling house room? And, for the mathter of that, I saw a biggar man than you are only yesterday, an’ he hadn’t half your consate.”