“You have wonderful sight, Conal,” says the Judge, says he, “and I’m afraid you’ve got the field.”
“Take care,” says Donal, says he, “but I’ve got as good. For I could tell you whether it was a mote in his eye that made him blink or not.”
“Ah, ha, ha!” says the Judge, says he, “this is wonderful sight surely. Taig,” says he, “I pity you, for you have no chance for the field now.”
“Have I not?” says Taig. “I could tell you from here whether that fly was in good health or not by counting his heart beats.”
“Well, well, well,” says the Judge, says he, “I’m in as great a quandary as ever. You are three of the most wonderful men that ever I met, and no mistake. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” says he; “I’ll give the field to the supplest man of you.”
“Thank you,” says Conal. “Then the field is mine.”
“Why so?” says the Judge.
“Because,” says Conal, says he, “if you filled that field with hares, and put a dog in the middle of them, and then tied one of my legs up my back, I would not let one of the hares get out.”
“Then, Conal,” says the Judge, says he, “I think the field is yours.”
“By the leave of your judgeship, not yet,” says Donal.