“That can’t be helped now,” says Jer; “it was a sevare act surely,” says he, “but it’s too late to lamint for it now,” says he; “the only way to prevint what’s past,” says he, “is to put a stop to it before it happens,” says he.
“Thrue for you,” says Terence; “but how the divil did you come to the knowledge iv my father’s sowl,” says he, “bein’ in the ould gandher?” says he.
“If I tould you,” says Jer, “you would not undherstand me,” says he, “without book-larnin’ an’ gasthronomy,” says he; “so ax me no questions,” says he, “an’ I’ll tell you no lies; but b’lieve me in this much,” says he, “it’s your father that’s in it,” says he, “an’ if I don’t make him spake to-morrow mornin’,” says he, “I’ll give you lave to call me a fool,” says he.
“Say no more,” says Terence, “that settles the business,” says he; “an’ oh! blur an’ ages, is it not a quare thing,” says he, “for a dacent, respictable man,” says he, “to be walkin’ about the counthry in the shape iv an ould gandher,” says he; “and oh, murdher, murdher! isn’t it often I plucked him,” says he; “an’ tundher an’ ouns, might not I have ate him,” says he; and wid that he fell into a could parspiration, savin’ your prisince, an’ was on the pint iv faintin’ wid the bare notions iv it.
Well, whin he was come to himself agin, says Jerry to him quiet an’ asy—“Terence,” says he, “don’t be aggravatin’ yourself,” says he, “for I have a plan composed that ’ill make him spake out,” says he, “an’ tell what it is in the world he’s wantin’,” says he; “an’ mind an’ don’t be comin’ in wid your gosther an’ to say agin anything I tell you,” says he, “but jist purtind, as soon as the bird is brought back,” says he, “how that we’re goin’ to sind him to-morrow mornin’ to market,” says he; “an’ if he don’t spake tonight,” says he, “or gother himself out iv the place,” says he, “put him into the hamper airly, and sind him in the cart,” says he, “straight to Tipperary, to be sould for aiting,” says he, “along wid the two gossoons,” says he; “an’ my name isn’t Jer Garvan,” says he, “if he doesn’t spake out before he’s half-way,” says he; “an’ mind,” says he, “as soon as ever he says the first word,” says he, “that very minute bring him off to Father Crotty,” says he, “an’ if his raverince doesn’t make him ratire,” says he, “like the rest iv his parishioners, glory be to God,” says he, “into the siclusion iv the flames iv purgathory, there’s no vartue in my charums,” says he.
Well, wid that the ould gandher was let into the room agin, an’ they all bigined to talk iv sindin’ him the nixt mornin’ to be sould for roastin’ in Tipperary, jist as if it was a thing andoubtingly settled; but not a notice the gandher tuck, no more nor if they wor spaking iv the Lord Liftinant; an’ Terence desired the boys to get ready the kish for the poulthry, “an’ to settle it out wid hay soft and shnug,” says he, “for it’s the last jauntin’ the poor ould gandher ’ill get in this world,” says he. Well, as the night was getting late, Terence was growin’ mighty sorrowful an’ downhearted in himself entirely wid the notions iv what was goin’ to happen. An’ as soon as the wife an’ the crathurs war fairly in bed, he brought out some iligant potteen, an’ himself an’ Jer Garvan sot down to it, an’ the more anasy Terence got, the more he dhrank, and himself and Jer Garvan finished a quart betune them: it wasn’t an imparial though, an’ more’s the pity, for them wasn’t anvinted antil short since; but divil a much matther it signifies any longer if a pint could hould two quarts, let alone what it does, sinst Father Mathew—the Lord purloin his raverince—bigin’d to give the pledge, an’ wid the blessin’ iv timperance to deginerate Ireland. An’ begorra, I have the medle myself; an’ its proud I am iv that same, for abstamiousness is a fine thing, although it’s mighty dhry. Well, whin Terence finished his pint, he thought he might as well stop, “for enough is as good as a faste,” says he, “an’ I pity the vagabond,” says he, “that is not able to conthroul his licquor,” says he, “an’ to keep constantly inside iv a pint measure,” says he, an’ wid that he wished Jer Garvan a good night, an’ walked out iv the room. But he wint out the wrong door, being a thrifle hearty in himself, an’ not rightly knowin’ whether he was standin’ on his head or his heels, or both iv them at the same time, an’ in place iv gettin’ into bed, where did he thrun himself but into the poulthry hamper, that the boys had settled out ready for the gandher in the mornin’; an’ sure enough he sunk down soft an’ complate through the hay to the bottom; an’ wid the turnin’ an’ roulin’ about in the night, not a bit iv him but was covered up as shnug as a lumper in a pittaty furrow before mornin’. So wid the first light, up gets the two boys that war to take the sperit, as they consaved, to Tipperary; an’ they cotched the ould gandher, an’ put him in the hamper and clapped a good wisp iv hay on the top iv him, and tied it down sthrong wid a bit iv a coard, and med the sign iv the crass over him, in dhread iv any harum, an’ put the hamper up on the car, wontherin’ all the while what in the world was makin’ the ould bird so surprisin’ heavy. Well, they wint along quiet an’ asy towards Tipperary, wishin’ every minute that some iv the neighbours bound the same way id happen to fall in with them, for they didn’t half like the notions iv havin’ no company but the bewitched gandher, an’ small blame to them for that same. But, although they wor shakin’ in their shkins in dhread iv the ould bird biginin’ to convarse them every minute, they did not let on to one another, but kep singin’ and whistlin’, like mad, to keep the dhread out iv their hearts. Well, afther they wor on the road betther nor half-an-hour, they kem to the bad bit close by Father Crotty’s, an’ there was one divil iv a rut three feet deep at the laste; an’ the car got sich a wondherful chuck goin’ through it, that it wakened Terence within the basket.
“Oh!” says he, “my bones is bruck wid yer thricks, what the divil are ye doin’ wid me?”
“Did ye hear anything quare, Thady?” says the boy that was next to the car, turnin’ as white as the top iv a musharoon; “did ye hear anything quare soundin’ out iv the hamper?” says he.
“No, nor you,” says Thady, turnin’ as pale as himself; “it’s the ould gandher that’s gruntin’ wid the shakin’ he’s gettin’,” says he.
“Where the divil have ye put me into?” says Terence inside; “let me out, or I’ll be smothered this minute,” says he.