“Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey!” it said.
Good heavens! who was calling him, and not a soul in sight? Look around as he might, he could find no one indoors or out. To add to his other worries, his horse was gone. Again he heard the voice.
“Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey! tell me a story,” it said, and it spoke louder than before.
What a thing to ask for! It was bad enough not to be left in peace seated by the fire drying oneself, without being bothered for a story. A third time the voice spoke, and louder than ever.
“Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey! tell me a story or it will be the worse for you,” it said.
My poor grandfather was so dumb-founded that he could only stand and stare. For a fourth time the voice spoke.
“ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY!” it shouted, “I told you it would be the worse for you.”
Then a man bounced out from a cupboard that Andrew Coffey had not noticed before. He was in a towering rage, and he carried as fine a blackthorn club as was ever used to crack a man’s head. When my grandfather clapped eyes on him he knew him for Patrick Rooney who had gone overboard one day in a sudden storm while fishing on the sea long years ago.
Andrew Coffey did not stop to visit, but took to his heels and got out of the house as quickly as he could. He ran and he ran taking little thought of where he went till at last he ran against a tree. Then he sat down to rest.
But he had been there only a few moments when he heard voices. One said, “the vagabond is heavy.”