It was our life-saver who undertook to solve the problem for us—the little fellow of multiple peculiarities, the most pronounced of which, as you have been informed, was displayed in his crossing himself three times before going into the water.
I rather think that one, maybe two, of Michael’s older sisters were among that hilarious lot. But as to that I cannot be sure. Much water has gone over the dam since that day and on some points things are a bit foggy. It is one of the tricks of memory—that parts of a recalled incident will stand out clearly while other parts remain, shadowy and tantalizingly, just outside the grasp of the mind.
So, then, of those damsels I make no identifications — this on account of much fog. Still, casting back through the mists of many years, I can sense enough of the old thing to cause me to suspect that I could almost spit on one of those erstwhile trim maidens, now grown stout, from where I write. Not, however, that I would want to do so at this late date.
With a mischievous twinkle in his pale blue eyes, Michael said: “Lave them to me boys. By-gorry I’ll show them a trick with a hole in it; I will so I will!” Much stress was laid upon the last phrase. It contained the true Irish accent. A trick with a hole in it! An old saying, of course — much used then.
Manifestly, Michael had decided, as any fine boy of the period would, to deal modestly with the girls—or, at least, with as much modesty as the exigencies of the situation would permit—but he had reckoned without taking into account the destructive forces of Time upon discarded tinware.
Someone, pointing to a stick on the bank, said, “Take that and wallop ‘em good!” It was a portion from the butt end of a well seasoned sumac.
“Aye, I have it!” mouthed Michael. At the same time he fished out of the mud at the edge of the pond an old weather-beaten dishpan, one of many that had been used in the tannery for various purposes. This he swung in front of him.
Then, with surprising alacrity and apparent confidence in himself and the implement of his veiling, he bounded up the bank, pivoting at the top long enough to cast a reassuring look over his shoulder to his buddies in the water. The gang beamed approvingly on their savior.
Michael advanced on the intruders, shouting in a rather thin voice, “Drop the rags, and scram!” He waved his cudgel. No results. Michael didn’t like having his efforts go for naught that way. The laughter went out of his eyes. His Irish was up. He resisted an impulse at belligerence. Then, “Vamoose, I tell you, or bygorry you’ll be knowing the feel of this shillelagh!” Now, however, his belligerent interest was superseded by new elements.
The girls did not budge. Not then. They laughed mightily. All but one. The Good Samaritan shook with suppressed laughter. Her orange bonnet bobbed in fine harmony. The little doggie barked. With deep concern and echoes of mortification trailing in her voice, the laughless one, stepping forward—it was now observed that she held in her hand a shillelagh of her own, once again of magic sumac origin—exclaimed, “Holy horrors! Look Michael! Your manners! There do be a hole in your shield!”