"Gi' me a match, some o' you, an' when I have a few draws o' this I'll tell you all about it."
Everybody fumbled in all his pockets for matches, and soon Ned had a supply sufficient to last for a week. He carefully lighted his pipe, took a few pulls, and then seated himself on a box in which there had been horse-shoe nails—the only easy-chair the forge contained.
"Let me see," he said, as he took the pipe from his mouth for a minute and gazed intently into the bowl, as if his inspiration lay therein. "It's nearer to thirty years ago than it is to twenty, an' the oldest o' you here was only toddlin' from the fire to the dresser an' back again. I was a lump of a gossoon at the time, an' I remember it as well as yesterday, an' good reason I have to remember it, because every man, woman, an' child in the country was talkin' about it, an' laughin' at Larry, as well they might.
"Maire Lanigan, you must know, was a bigger play-actor of a woman when she was younger than she is now. She was as tricky as a fox, an' no one could match her in every kind o' cleverness, though you'd think to look at her that she was only a gom. She an' old Charley the husband—God be good to him!—had that little farm o' the Lynches at that time, an' were middlin' well off, havin' neither chick nor child to bother about. They used to rear calves an' pigs an' sell them at good prices, but the dickens a one o' them ever Charley sold, because he was too shy an' quiet an' easy-goin' always. Maire is the one that could thrash out a bargain an' haggle an' wrangle an' dispute until she'd have the whole fair lookin' at her an' laughin' at her; an' there wasn't a jobber ever came into the fair o' Castletown but knew her as well as they knew a good beast or a bad one.
"Well, one May fair—the biggest fair that ever was in Castletown, the old people 'll tell you—Charley an' Maire had a fine lump of a calf to sell that they reared themselves from he was calved, an' they brought him out brave an' early in the mornin' to get rid of him, if they could come across a buyer. They weren't long in the fair, anyway, when who comes up to them but Mickey Flanagan—God rest him!—Jack the Jobber's father, an' begins to make the bargain with Maire. After a lot o' disputin' an' squabblin' an' dividin' o' this crown an' that half-crown an' a lot o' shoutin' on Maire's part, Mickey bought the calf, an' says he:
"'Meet me at Kennedy's, below near the railway, at three o'clock, an' I'll pay you, along with the rest.'
"'No, but you'll pay me this minute,' says Maire, 'or you'll not get the calf at all. I have my rent to pay at twelve o'clock, an' if you don't gi' me the money now I'll have to sell him to some one that will.'
"Mickey Flanagan saw that the calf was a good one, so he paid for it at once, because he was afraid that if he made any delay Maire might sell to some other jobber. When all was settled says he:
"'Drive him down an' put him into Kennedy's yard, an' tell the gossoon to keep an eye to him till I go down myself with a few more.'