“‘Where’s the spit?’ says one.
“‘Here ’tis,’ says another, handing it over; and for certain they spitted him, and began to turn him before the fire.
“If they are not going to eat him, thinks I, like the Hannibals father Quinlan told us about in his sarmint last Sunday.
“‘Who’ll turn the spit while we go for the other ingredients?’ says one of them that brought the coffin, and a big ugly-looking blackguard he was.
“‘Who’d turn the spit but Ned Sheehy?’ says another.
“Burn you! thinks I, how should you know that I was here so handy to you up in the tree?
“‘Come down, Ned Sheehy, and turn the spit,’ says he.
“‘I’m not here at all, sir,’ says I, putting my hand over my face that he might not see me.
“‘That won’t do for you, my man,’ says he; ‘you’d better come down, or may be I’d make you.’
“‘I’m coming, sir,’ says I; for ’tis always right to make a virtue of necessity. So down I came, and there they left me turning the spit in the middle of the wide wood.