An’ so they wint on, the crathurs, though sorrow a much could they see barrin’ a big lump of somethin’ gruntin’ in a corner. But they didn’t like lettin’ on to one another that they hadn’t got the worth of their money.
Maintime the news flew like wildfiyer through the town, an’ man, woman, an’ child, gentle an’ simple, kem crowdin’ up to look at the royal Bingal tigyer, and wid them kem one Mullins, a grate ould miser of a chap.
To be sure he began castin’ about for some way of seein’ the tigyer chape, so what does he do but when no one was lookin’ he creeps in undher the wheels of the carrywan, and begins thryin’ for a chink of his own, and as good luck would have it he finds a hole where a boult had fallen out of the boords, just convanient to Jack’s ear.
As he was looking through this he hears Jack talkin’ an’ grumblin’ to himself in his sleep. So he cocks his ear and listens. “Faix,” says he, “you’re a dhroll Bengal tigyer. May I never if it isn’t Irish he’s spaking.” And with that he takes a bit of a sthraw and prods Jack in the jaw. “Ow!” says Jack. “That was a grate roar,” says the people inside.
“What are ye, at all?” says Mullins in a whisper.
“I’m the greatest man in all Ireland,” says Jack, dhrowsy-like.
“Throth, then, ye don’t take up much room av ye are,” says Mullins.
“Thrue for ye,” says Jack, “I’m bint double like a cod in a pot, wid my heels in my mouth a’most.”
“An’ what brought ye there?” says Mullins.
“Erra, how do I know?” says Jack, goin aff to sleep again.