“This bottle of mine is better to you than money,” the little man affirmed. “Take it, and give me the cow. I ask you for the last time, Mick Purcell.”
“How does he know my name?” thought Mick, with increased alarm.
“I have a regard for you, Mick Purcell,” the stranger continued. “Therefore do I warn you that unless you make the exchange I have proposed you will be sorry for it. How do you know but your cow may die before you get to Cork?”
“God forbid!” exclaimed Mick.
“And how do you know,” the little man went on, “but there will be so many cattle at the fair you will get a poor price? Or you might be robbed when you are coming home. But why need I talk more to you when you are determined to throw away your luck?”
“Oh, no! I would not throw away my luck, sir,” Mick affirmed hastily; “and if I was sure the bottle was as good as you say, though I never liked an empty bottle, I’d give you the cow for it.”
“I would not tell you a lie,” declared the stranger. “Here, take the bottle, and when you get home do what I direct, exactly.”
Mick hesitated.
“Well, then,” said the little man sharply, “good-by, I can stay no longer. Take the bottle and be rich; or refuse it, and beg for your living, and see your children in poverty and your wife dying of want. That is what will happen to you, Mick Purcell!” and the little man grinned maliciously.
“Maybe ’tis true,” said Mick, still hesitating. He did not know what to do; and yet he could hardly help believing the old man. The latter was turning to go when Mick in a fit of desperation seized the bottle. “Take the cow,” said he, “and if you are telling a lie, the curse of the poor will be on you.”