“I’m Fan MaCool,” sez the other, as impident as a cock sparra’; “have you anything to say agen me?” for his name wasn’t up, at that time, like afther.
“Ay, lots to say agen you. How dar’ you be comin’ round this a-way, dressed like a playacthor, takin’ us in?” sez the king, lettin’ on to be vexed; “an’ now,” sez he, “to annoy you, you’ll have to go an’ jump back agen afore you gets me daughter for puttin’ on (deceiving) us in such a manner.”
“Your will is my pleasure,” sez Fan; “but I must have a word or two with the girl first,” sez he, an’ up he goes an’ commences talkin’ soft to her, an’ the king got as mad as a hatther at the way the two were croosheenin’ an’ colloguin’ (whispering and talking), an’ not mindin’ him no more than if he was the man in the moon, when who comes up but the Prence ov Imayle, afther dryin’ himself, to put his pike in the hay, too.
“Well, avochal (my boy),” sez Fan, “are you dry yet?” an’ the prencess laughed like a bell round a cat’s neck.
“You think yourself a smart lad, I suppose,” sez the other; “but there’s one thing you can’t do wid all your prate!”
“What’s that?” sez Fan. “Maybe not,” sez he.
“You couldn’t whistle an’ chaw oatenmale,” sez the Prence ov Imayle, in a pucker. “Are you any good at throwin’ a stone?” sez he, then.
“The best!” sez Fan, an’ all the coort gother round like to a cock-fight. “Where’ll we throw to?” sez he.
“In to’ards Dublin,” sez the Prence ov Imayle; an’ be all accounts he was a great hand at cruistin (throwing). “Here goes pink!” sez he, an’ he ups with a stone, as big as a castle, an’ sends it flyin’ in the air like a cannon ball, and it never stopped till it landed on top ov the Three Rock Mountain.
“I’m your masther!” sez Fan, pickin’ up another clochaun (stone) an’ sendin’ it a few perch beyant the first.