“‘“They think they are,” ses he. “But who’s to know whether they are or not? The Protestants would eat fish every day of the week, if they could get it, but the Catholics will only eat it on Fridays, and wouldn’t eat it then if they could help it. And moreover, the Protestants have all the good jobs in Ireland and the United States, but for choice, ’tis a Freemason I’d be myself, if I could.”
“‘“That’s not the question at all,” ses I. “Are you, or are you not, going to bring me to the shore?”
“‘“Well, I’m about sick and tired of you now, anyway,” ses he, “so sit up on my back, and I’ll land you at the Old Head of Kinsale.” And sure enough he kept his word, and I was landed high and dry on the rocks of my native parish in less time than you’d take to lace your shoe. And all he said as he went his way was: “Good-by, now, and don’t forget all I told you. I have an invitation to lunch at the Canary Islands, and I’ll be late if I don’t hurry.” And with that, he plunged beneath a breaker, and that was the last I ever saw of the fish who ate my leg off, and made me a cripple for life.”
“‘And did you keep your promise?’ ses I to the man with the wooden leg, when he had finished his story.”
“‘No,’ ses the man with the wooden leg, ‘but instead, I swore ten thousand holy oaths that I would eat nothing but fish, if I lived to be as old as Batty Hayes’s old goat. And that’s why I am always so thirsty.’”
“Bedad, but that’s a queer story, surely,” said Padna. “I suppose the fish would have eaten his other leg off, only it might spoil his appetite for lunch.”
“Very likely,” said Micus.
“Well, I don’t believe I could beat that for a yarn,” said Padna.