“That blow is harder,” said Mucan Mor, “than any child can give. Go and see who is in it.”
The man searched high and low, and it failed him to find any one but the child.
“It would be a wonder if you are the one, you little child, that struck the blow.”
“What harm,” said the little child, “if I gave the pole a touch?”
“Mucan Mor is going to dinner soon,” said the messenger; “and if you vex him again, ’tis yourself that he’ll eat in place of the dinner.”
“Is dinner ready?” asked Cud.
“It is going to be left down,” was the answer he got.
When the man went in, Cud gave the pole a hard blow, and didn’t leave calf, foal, lamb, kid, or child awaiting its birth, or a bag of poor oats or rye, that didn’t turn five times to the left, and five to the right with the fright that it got. He made such a noise and crash that dishes were broken, knives hurled around, and the castle shaken to its bottom stone. Mucan Mor himself was turned five times to the left and five to the right before he could put the soles of his feet under him. When he went out, and saw the small child, he asked, “Was it you that struck the pole?”
“I gave it a little tip,” said Cud.
“You are a child of no sense to be lying so, and it is yourself that I’ll eat for my supper.”