“So,” said he at once without preamble, “so you’ve lost your butter.”
“Yes,” said I, “’tis certainly gone.”
“Well, if you like, I’ll get it for you. My name is Orohoo (O’Hara); I live at Sliev Bawn—the people call me the Fairy man—I can find things that’s stole—and I keep the garvally.”
“Indeed!” said I: “why, you must be a clever fellow: but can you get my butter?”
“Not a doubt of it,” said he, “if it is in the country.”
I had heard of the garvally before, which was described as “a crooked thing like the handle of an umbrella, covered with green baize.” It was formerly in much repute for swearing on; “and a terrible thing it was, for if you swore falsely and it round your neck, your mouth would turn to the back of your head, or you’d get such a throttling as you’d never get the better of.” It had latterly, however, lost much of its virtue, or rather of its fame, by an unbelieving vagabond yoking it on and swearing to a manifest falsehood, without suffering any visible inconvenience. But to return to Orohoo.
He made no stipulation; but requiring a deep plate, some water and salt, with a little of the cow’s milk, he commenced by desiring my wife and me to stand forward. He then asked our names, if I was the owner of the cow, how long I had had her, if that woman was my wife, when we had lost our butter, and if we suspected any person for taking it. To these queries I answered as was necessary; but to the last I replied, I did not believe in witchcraft.
“Don’t you believe in fairies?” he asked.
“Scarcely,” said I.
“No matter,” said he; “maybe before I’m done you will believe in them.”