“I have often remarked it,” cried Peace. “They seldom do.”
Well, then, he was no exception, but the rason must be that he’d bin fastin’, not forgettin’ also that the young woman never let his glass stand empty. Jack was very soon obfusticated.
Then they all got into the carrywan, Jack hooraing like anything.
Then they had some more of the “crathur,” until Jack tumbles on the floor speechless.
“You gev him too much,” says the showman.
“Devil a bit,” says Biddy; “you lave him to me.”
So they doubled up Jack and crammed him into a part of the carrywan that was made for the great say sarpint, and put a stuffed mermaid under his head for a pillow.
When they got into Castlebar Jack was sleepin’ beautiful, so they left him quiet and paceable where he was; and in the morning, when the people began to clusther round the consarn to see the coorosities he was sleeping still.
Well, there was no cause to rouse him, for the say sarpint he was lying with couldn’t be exhibited in regard to being bruk to pieces by the joultin’ of the machine over the bad roads.
So the showman began callin’ the people to step up and see the great Portugee joiant an’ the Injin jugglar (maynin’ himself—the ould imposther!), and the grate rowling picther of the goold diggins, and the rest of the wondherful things, every wan of them lies, more or less.