But Dermot was not content to live on bread alone. He asked the small chief where he might get some meat.
“Instead of turning to the right, as you did when you went to the bakery, turn to the left and go the same distance in that direction. That will bring you to the king’s butcher, where you should be able to get plenty of meat.”
Dermot did as he was advised and found the man in his shop. He was a big, red-faced fellow, smeared from head to foot with the blood of the last animal he had killed.
“I want some meat for my supper,” said Dermot.
The butcher flew into a fine rage and brandished his knife. “Get out of here, you ruffian from Erin!” he shouted. “It was you who wounded so many of our people today. Get away before I cut out your heart.”
The butcher made a dash at Dermot. The latter was merely amused by the rage of the man. He laughed loudly, took away the knife with one hand, while with the other he caught the butcher by the belt and lifted him off the floor. A meat hook on the wall was very handy. Dermot hooked the belt of the butcher over that and left him hanging there, a funny sight as he kicked and yelled. With the meat Dermot got from the shop, and the bread, he and the small chief had a hearty supper.
The next day he again presented himself before the king.
“What do you want today?” asked the ruler of the White Nation.
“I want to see my chief, Finn MacCool, or to fight for him,” said Dermot.
“Fight you shall,” declared the king. “You shall not see him.”