"I'M THE MAN OF ALL MIN THAT KILLED THREESCORE AND TIN AT A BLOW."
"When the people sees that," says the Waiver to himself, "the sorra one will dar' for to come near me."
And with that he found the wit to scour out the small iron pot for him for says he, "it will make an illigant helmet—and when it was done, he put it on his head, and the wife said, "Oh murther, Thady jewel, is it puttin' a great heavy iron pot on your head you are, by way iv a hat?"
"Sartainly," says he, "for a knight arriant should always have a weight on his brain."
"But, Thady dear," said the wife, "there's a hole in it, and it can't keep out the weather."
"It will be the cooler," says he, puttin' it on him,—"besides, if I don't like it, it is aisy to stop it up with a wisht o' straw, or the like o' that."
"The three legs of it looks mighty quare, stickin up," says she.
"Every helmet has a spike stickin' out o' the top of it," says the
Waiver, "and if mine has three, it is only the grandther it is"
"Well," says the wife, getting bitther at last, "all I can say is, it isn't the first sheep's head was dhressed in it."
"Your sarvent ma'am," says he; and off he set.