Molly told him he should have everything right. And about twelve o’clock the next day he left her, after having promised not to sell his cow except for the highest penny.
He drove the beast slowly through a little stream that crossed the road under the walls of an old fort; and as he passed, he glanced his eyes on a pile of stones and an old elder tree that stood up sharply against the sky.
“Oh, then, if only I had half the Fairy money that is buried in yon fort, ’tisn’t driving this cow I’d be now!” said he aloud.
Then he moved on after his beast. ’Twas a fine day, and the sun shone brightly, and after he had gone six miles, he came to that hill—Bottle Hill it is called now, but that was not the name of it then.
“Good morrow, Mick!” said a little voice, and with that a little man started up out of the hill.
“Good morrow, kindly,” said Mick, and he looked at the stranger who was like a dwarf with a bit of an old wrinkled face, for all the world like a dried cauliflower; only he had a sharp red nose, red eyes, and white hair. His eyes were never quiet, but looked at everything; and it made Mick’s blood run cold just to see them roll so rapidly from side to side.
In truth Mick did not like the little man’s company at all, and he drove his cow somewhat faster; but the little man kept up with him. Out of the corner of his eye Mick could see that he moved over the road without lifting one foot after the other; and the poor fellow’s heart trembled within him.
“Where are you going with that cow, honest man?” said the little man at last.
“To the Fair of Cork, then,” said Mick, trembling even more at the shrill and piercing voice.