“Humph!” says he, pullin’ out a big key that was fastened to his waistcoat with a string, and opening a black oak chest that was standin’ at the foot of the bed. “Do you see that bag, Mary?” says he, pointin’ to a blue one. “I do, sir,” says I. “Well, in that I brought home the price of the cattle. Do ye see that other striped one?” says he. I told him that I did. “Well, that’s the interest of what I lent the squire,” and three or four other gentlemen he named. “Now, Mary Connor,” says he, shuttin’ down the lid and lockin’ the chest again, “if sixpence would save you from starvin’, and Pat Grady from a jail, be this book,” and he kissed the key, “I wouldn’t give it if you were on the gallows.” I rushed out from the ould villain’s sight. “Stop,” he cried, shoutin’ from the windy; “as soon as the lame cow can walk, she’ll go where the others went yesterday. There’s a cake, I hear, the night at Croneeinbeg.—You’ll be dancin’ there, I think—ye know the heel’s light, where the heart’s merry—isn’t it, Mary Connor?” and till I was out of bearin’, that fiend’s laugh pierced me to the soul.’
“Well, Mark, I had made up my mind, before the poor girl had done speakin.’ ‘Mary,’ says I ‘the ould monster shall tell truth for once. Go home—dress yourself in your best—you’ll be my partner to-night at Croneeinbeg—ay, and, by Heaven! there sha’n’t be a lighter foot upon the floor, nor a merrier heart lavin’ the dance-house than your own, Mary Connor!’
“She stared—but I pressed lier to do what I wished, and she promised it. I waited till she was out of sight, and then jogged quietly on towards the place wore Maley lived.
“When I got within sight of the house, I thought it rather too early to pay a visit to the miser, and steppin’ into a quarry, sate down to let another hour pass. Maley knew me well; but as I had a crape in my pocket, I determined to disguise myself, pass for Johnny Gibbons, * and give him the credit of the job. Presently I heard footstep on the road, and up came three men. They did not see me, but I heard them talkin’. One of them was Maley’s boy, and he was tellin’ his companions how nicely he had given his master the slip, and stole away without his knowin’ it. ‘If the cows brake loose,’ says he, the ‘divil a man-body’s about the place to tie them.’ Oh, ho! thought I to myself, sorrow a better evening I could have chosen to visit ye, Mister Maley. So when the boys were out of bearin’, I rose up, and reached the miser’s without meetin’ a living soul.
“I peeped quietly through the windy, an’ there was sittin’ the ould villin two-double over a few coals upon the hearth—for he begrudged himself a dacent fire—and two women were spinnin’ in the corner. A dog that came out of the barn knew me to be strange, and set up the bark.—‘What’s that Cusdhu’s ** growlin’ at?’ said ould Maley, sharply—‘Go out, Brideeine, and see.’ I lifts the latch, and quietly steps in. ‘There’s no occasion, Mister Maley,’ says I. ‘It’s an ould friend who was passin’ the road, and dropped in to ask ye how ye were.’ The women gave a squall, and I thought the miser would have dropped out of the chair where he was sittin.’ ‘Girls,’ says I, ‘I’ll stand no nonsense. Ye have heard of Johnny Gibbons, I suppose.’ Both dropt upon their knees, and Maley began to cross himself.—‘Up with ye,’ says I. ‘Go into that room, and if ather you brathe a whisper that would waken the cat, I’ll drive a ball thro’ ach o’ye.”
[Original]
“The divil a delay they made; but away they stole, and closed the door after them. Well, I laid the gun upon the dresser, drew a stool, an’ sits down fornent the miser. ‘Arrah, bad luck attend ye for an ould thief,’ says I; ‘hav’n’t ye the manners to ask a man who has come ten miles to see ye, whether he has a mouth or not?’ ‘Oh! Mister Gibbons, jewel, it was all a forget on my part. There’s a bottle of licker in the cupboard.’ ‘An’ the curse of Cromwell on ye!’ says I; ‘de ye think it’s me that’s goin’ to attend myself?—Brideeine—tell the ould woman to go to bed, an’ come out an’ wait upon your betters,—come out, I say—or maybe yeer waitin’ for me to fetch ye?’ Out she comes, shakin’ like a dog in a wet sack, brings the whisky, and fills a glass. ‘Now, light a dacent candle—keep your rush-light for other company—an’ be off with ye. Here’s yeer health, Mister Maley,’ says I; ‘the divil a better poteeine crossed my lips this twelvemonth. An’ now for bisnis. Step down to the room with me, if ye plase.’ ‘Arrah,’ says he, ‘what de ye want there?’ I niver answered him, but took out a pistol carelessly from my coat pocket, opened the pan, shook the primin’, and looked at the flint. ‘Christ stan’ between us an’ harm! what are ye about?’ says he. ‘Nothing,’ says I; ‘only that I always see if the tools are in proper order before they’r wanted.
* A sanguinary scoundrel, hanged after the Irish
rebellion, whose name is still a terror to the peasantry.
** Cusdhu, literally blackfoot, although many a white-footed
cur is so called—the Irish peasantry considering that name
a lucky one.