Sandy, without raising his lack-lustre eye, came over and replied, “Aw—ay—'Am the author o' Betty's Menstrel;” and having uttered this piece of intelligence, he shuffled across the room, dragging one foot after the other, at about a quarter of a minute per step. Never was poor Beattie so libellously represented.
“Do you see that round-faced, good-humored looking man, with a decent frieze coat on?” said their conductor. “He's a wealthy and respectable farmer from the county of Kilkenny, who imagines that he is Christ. His name is Rody Rafferty.”
“Come here, Rody.”
Rody came over, and looking at the stranger, said, “Arra, now, do you know who I am? Troth, I go bail you don't.”
“No,” replied the stranger, “I do not; but I hope you will tell me.”
“I'm Christ,” replied Rody; “and, upon my word, if you don't get out o' this, I'll work a miracle on you.”
“Why,” asked the stranger, “what will you do?”
“Troth, I'll turn you into a blackin' brush, and polish my shoes wid you. You were at Barney's death, too.”
The poor man had gone deranged, it seemed, by the violent death of his only child—a son.
“There's another man,” said the conductor; “that little fellow with the angry face. He is a shoemaker, who went mad on the score of humanity. He took a strong feeling of resentment against all who had flat feet, and refused to make shoes for them.”