"An' how did he get it for nothin' that time, Ned?" asked Bartle, and as he spoke all other conversation was suspended, and we gathered in close to the anvil, apparently careless, but every mother's son of us eager as could be for the story which we knew from experience lay at the back of Ned's remark on Jimmy Malone's behaviour.
"Do you remember Neddy an' Phil M'Govern that died within a week of each other, just this time two years?" asked Ned.
Of course we had all known the two old brothers and their eccentric ways, and had often peeped in at them as they argued by the fire, and we told Ned as much.
"Well, they were just as odd an' as comical in their ways when they were close on fifty years of age as when eighty was drawin' near them, an' if I could only remember them, I know as many stories about Neddy an' Phil as would keep me talkin' for a whole week without stoppin'. They were the queerest couple ever walked in shoe leather or bare feet—may God be good to them this night. At the time I'm goin' to tell you about they didn't live together, as they did when you knew them. Phil lived with an old uncle o' his beyond at Hogan's well, where you'll see the walls o' the house standin' still, and Neddy lived by himself in the house on the hill there above, where they died, an' where Tom M'Dermott, their sister's son, is livin' now. Neither one nor th' other o' them ever got married, because I suppose no girl 'd have them (you needn't laugh)—some people 'd say because they'd begrudge spendin' any money on the weddin', but I don't believe that, as hard as they were—and the way they had o' livin' was as comical as ever you knew. Jimmy the Thrick, to give him the name he was best known by in his young days, lived over there on the hill, not far away from Neddy—that was, of course, before he married into the wife's place—an' he'd tell you stones about Neddy's housekeepin' that'd make you laugh if you had the toothache. An' the best o' them all is the story that Jimmy himself had most to do with.
"Jimmy, you must know, was a terrible playboy at that time an' nobody was safe from his tricks. He couldn't rest at night unless he was after makin' a fool o' somebody, or after playin' some trick durin' the day. He was never easy, mornin', noon or night.
"The people long ago used to kill their own pigs, an' you'd never see backs of American bacon hangin' up in country houses like you do now, an' signs on it, everyone was twice as healthy. 'Twas the talk about what Father Martin said last Sunday that put this story about Neddy an' Phil an' Jimmy into my head. On account of only the two o' them an' the old uncle bein' in it, they used only kill one pig between them every year an' divide it. Neddy'd kill one this year, an' send the half of it over to Phil an' the uncle, an' whatever he had too much after that he'd give to the sister that was married in Knockbride; then the next year Phil 'd kill a pig an' send the half of it to Neddy, an' so on.
"This year, anyway, that I'm talkin' about, it happened that it was Neddy's turn to kill the pig, an' what do you think but one o' the shopkeepers in Castletown said to him that if he was thinkin' o' killin' a pig that year an' didn't want it all, that he had a customer that wanted a piece o' home-cured bacon, an' would give the highest price for it. Neddy wasn't very rich, an' he thought to himself when he came home that if he could get out o' the obligation o' givin' half the pig to Phil, he'd be all right. He could make a couple o' pound for himself an' have enough o' bacon for the year as well. What was he to do at all? The only thing he could think of was to pretend to sell it along with the other pig at the fair that was near at hand. But then Phil 'd be at the fair an' helpin' to make the bargain, an' he'd see that only one o' the pigs was sold. He couldn't hit on a plan of any kind that'd be good enough, an' he was goin' to give up in despair when who comes in but my brave Jimmy Malone—'twas evenin' time—to have a smoke an' to warm his shins at Neddy's fire.
"Neddy knew that Jimmy was never at a loss for a plan for anythin' an' he ups an' tells him the story o' the pig an' the terrible puzzle he was in. Jimmy listened with great attention, an' was very simple an' solemn-lookin', but the divilment came into his head, an' says he to Neddy, when he heard the whole story:
"'It'd be a mortial shame, Neddy,' says he, 'for you to lose the couple o' pound an' you wantin' it so badly, an' especially when you say that Phil's two pigs is better nor your own an' that he didn't divide fair with you last year. It'd be a terrible shame, Neddy, an' I'm goin' to get you out o' the hobble or know for what. I'll just tell you in a few words the best thing for you to do. Kill the pig unknownst to Phil, an' scrape it, an' clean it out, an' then hang it up at the gable end o' the house, an' leave it there when you're goin' to bed. Then the first thing in the mornin' get up before anyone else thinks o' risin' an' bring in the pig and salt it, an' put it above in the room, an' cover it as much as you can; an' then go round the whole townlan' from this to Larry Boylan's beyond, an' clap your hands an' cry an' moan an' be in a terrible state, an' tell everybody that someone took your pig down from the gable—an' sure that'll be no lie for you—an' no matter what Phil or your uncle or anyone else says, keep on lamentin' and cryin' an' sayin' that your pig is gone from the gable, an' that poor Phil 'll have to be eatin' American bacon this year; an' if that doesn't work all right an' leave your pig with you, my name is not Jimmy Malone.'