“That’s a big lie, anyhow,” says Jack—“a regular whopper. Botheration, but everyone knows that I’m the biggest man in all Ireland.”
“Devil a lie,” cried the other. “There’s a biggar and finer man than you in Ballinrobe this minnit, and what do you think they are doin’ wid him? Why, they are showin’ him to the people for twopence in a raree show, just as they do wid the wild bastes. Bedad, if you are wise you’ll go and show yourself for twopence. It’s all you are good for.”
“You dirthy spalpeen. By St. Patrick, but I’ll dust yer jacket for your impidence,” and with these words Jack makes a wipe at him wid a bit of a stick he used to carry—it was like the mast of a Galway hooker was that same switch.
But ye see, my friends, the little brogue maker was as nimble as a bounding acrobat, an’ he skipped away just in time, an’ Jack almost knocked out the wall of the cabin wid the whack he gave.
Well, he knew of ould there was no ketchin’ Farrell to gi’ him a basting, so he made it up wid him, for, to give him his jew, he never bore malice, and was a grate dacent sort of man.
“Och, look here, now, I don’t want any more of your mighty big lies, so kape your tongue betwane yer teeth, and measure me for the brogues.”
Farrell obeyed, and his customer left, but he was mighty unasy in his mind about the man at Ballinrobe.
“What ails you?” said his wife, upon his return. “Ye don’t same yerself at all at all.”
“Don’t consarn yerself about me,” cried Jack. “I’m right enough.”
But his wife knew betther. She axed him to sit down to supper, but he refused—and he refused also to take a shaugh at his pipe, he was that heavy in his heart.