He frequently came to Perth for the sake of a little chat with the storekeepers and the gentry, and as he was sure to blarney some one into giving him a dinner, he always returned home light of heart and unimpaired in pocket. But alas! poor Mike was not destined to die in peace at Skibbereen. A large party of the natives had suddenly attacked the abode of a neighbouring settler, and put the owner to death. Michael Blake and two of his friends, without waiting for other assistance, hastened to the rescue, imperfectly armed. They were overpowered in an instant. Blake and one of his companions fell pierced with many spears, whilst the other, being on horseback, escaped, carrying with him four spears fixed in his body. Years afterwards, one of the natives who had assisted at the slaughter coolly related the particulars of the death of Michael Blake.
When he was lying on the ground, said this man, he turned round, and supporting himself on his arm, entreated for mercy in the most moving terms. The savages stood round him, looking on, and listening patiently to his address.
"Did you show him mercy?" asked my informant.
"No!" replied the savage, with calm indifference.
"What did you do?"
"We cut his tongue out."
"Wretch! what for?"
"He wongee (chattered) too much."
Poor Mike! his blarney could not save him; it had often before done him good service, but the savages valued it not.