Micky caught the miller. “I will put you,” said he, “in one of the hoppers of the mill unless you make away with yourself out of this.”
The miller ran away in dread that Micky would kill him. Micky laid hold of a strong, weighty chain, and tied a great sack of flour and put it on his back. When the sack was across his back he could not pass through the doorway, and knew not what to do.
“It would be a shame for me to say of the first load I put on my back that I left that same after me.” He stepped backward some paces and made such a rush that he carried out the frame of the door with him.
“Well, mother,” said he, “we have fire and flour enough now, and let you be making loaves for the visitors.”
He went next to the woman in charge of the milk-house. “It is hither my mother sent me for a firkin of butter. There are three strangers above in our house. What will be left of the butter I will bring back in the morning, and all my own help and assistance to you for a week to come.”
“Be out of my milk-house, you stump of a fool,” said the woman. “What assistance can you give to pay for my milk and butter?”
“Let you be out of this, my good woman,” said Micky, “or I will not leave much life in you from this day out.”
She went away in a hurry, and he carried a firkin of butter home on his shoulder.
“Now, mother,” said he, “you have bread, fire, butter, and all things you need. If we had a bit of meat, that would be all that we care for.”
He went away then and never stopped nor stayed till he reached the place where all the king’s fine fat sheep were. He caught up one and brought it home on his shoulder.