“What was it then?” said Micus.
“‘I’m going to raffle myself at a guinea a ticket,’ ses he. ‘And if I will sell five hundred, I will have enough to buy a small farm. That would give me a real start in life, and after I have what I want, discontent is possible.’ And then and there, he got his photo printed on a card, on which was written:
‘A Bargain of Bargains
To be raffled, and drawn for, on St. Swithin’s eve, at the Black Cock Tavern, one Cormac McShane. He stands five feet six inches in his stocking vamps, black hair, blue eyes, an easy disposition, and no poor relations. A limited number of tickets, to wit, five hundred, will be sold at one guinea each, to widows without children, of less than three score and five.’”
“Well,” said Micus, “the devil be in it, but that was the most extraordinary way I ever heard of a man looking for a wife with a fortune. And why did he make the stipulation that only widows were eligible?”
“Because widows are always less extravagant than single women, and they know how to humour a man better, when he has lost his temper.”
“And how many tickets did he sell?” asked Micus.
“Every single one, and he could have sold as many more, only he hadn’t them printed,” said Padna.
“And that was how Cormac McShane got a wife, or how a wife got him, if you will?” said Micus.
“Yes,” said Padna, “and while the money lasted, Cormac was the happiest man in the country.”