Part 6

“Mind your sconce now,” says he to King James; “for I’m going to hammer over your head.”

“Oh murdher!” says the King. “Did any one ever hear of the likes of this? ’Tis choke I will between want of air an’ the smell of the whisky.”

“’Tis thankful to Heaven you ought to be to have the chance of gettin’ dhrunk so chape,” says Jimmy.

“How do you feel when you’re gettin’ drunk?” says the King, his voice soundin’ very hollow from the puncheon.

“Grand!” says Jimmy. “Grand intirely; but gettin’ sober is the mischiefs own job.”

“I can’t hear you wud the noise of your hammer,” says the King, for Jimmy was hard at work fixin’ the lid nately in its place wud some nails.

“Howld your tongue!” says Jimmy. “I think I hear the thramp of horse-sogers in the sthreet outside. Now wan last word to you,” says the little man. “Whatever happens, or whatever inconvaynience you feel, don’t let there be a whimper out of you. ’Tis like enough you’ll soon be dead dhrunk an’ then you won’t feel any onaisiness until you’re gettin’ betther, but if you makes the slightest noise ’tis all up wud you. Good-bye now, James, an’ mind, not a stir or a word out of you!”

Just as Jimmy was done spaykin’, there was a thundherin’ knock at the hall door. “Bad scran to it!” says he, “they’ll be atop of us before the job is finished.” So he whips a lump of chalk out of his pocket, an’ he prents in big letthers on the puncheon,

“PICKLED PORK FOR SHIP’S USE ONLY.”

Then he runs out to the door an’ opens it, rubbin’ his eyes as if he was just afther gettin’ out of bed.

There wor five men at the door, aich of ’em howldin’ a horse by the bridle, an’ Jimmy soon saw they wor about three parts screwed.

“What can I do for ye, gentlemen?” says he, bowin’ very politely.

“Is there any sthrangers lodgin’ in the house?” axes wan of the sogers that had a sthripe on the sleeve of his jacket.

“None _lodgin’_ here, worse luck!” says Jimmy. “Business is shockin’ bad. But won’t you step inside, sargeant?” says he. “Who is it you’re lookin’ for?”

“James the Second,” says the sargeant.

“Murdher!” says Jimmy. “Is he in these parts?”

“We’re towld so,” says the sargeant, steppin’ into the hall; “an’ me an’ my min is searchin’ the public-houses for him.”

“Dhry work, I’m sure,” says Jimmy, grinnin’ to himself.

“’Tis,” says the sargeant, though, poor man ’twas as much as he could do to stand study on his legs. “Do you keep a good dhrop here? I’m sick an’ tired of this wild-goose chase, an’ I’ll take your word for it that King James isn’t here, if the dhrink’s to my likin’.”

“Don’t take my word for anything,” says Jimmy; “but obey ordhers, an’ search the premises. Call in your men now an’ let ’em prod the beds an’ look up the chimbleys an’ down into the cellars, for I wouldn’t have it said that any man disobeyed ordhers on my account in this house.”

The fact of it was poor Jimmy was afeard to tell a downright lie, an’ of coorse he knew they’d never think of lookin’ for a King in a whisky puncheon.

Well, the sargeant called in two of his min an’ towld ’em to search the house from top to bottom, an’ when the min had started to go down into the cellar Jimmy took the sargeant into the shop an’ says he,—

“Do you see that three-gallon measure of malt there?” pointin’ to the copper standin’ on the flure near the big puncheon. “I’ll make yourself an’ your comrades a present of it if you does me a bit of a favour. Take a sniff of it before you makes up your mind,” says Jimmy, dhrawin’ the poor man to the measure just like the sarpint drew Eve to the apple-three.

“Great stuff intirely!” says the sargeant, suckin’ in his stomachful of the fumes. “I’ll do anything in raison for three gallon of that. What is it you want?”

“Well, you see that big cask of salt pork there?” puttin’ his hand agen the side of the puncheon. “I’ve sowld it to the captain of a little ship, an’ he sent me up word last night that it should be aboord before seven o’clock this mornin’. It’s just twenty minutes to the hour now, an’ I clane forgot last night to give ordhers about the cask, an’ all I wants your min to do is to take it down to the little ship for me. Is it a bargain?”

“It is,” says the sargeant. “Let us wet the conthract this minute.”

So Jimmy dipped a tumbler into the measure an’ passed it to the sargeant, who swallowed it as if it wor so much wather he was pourin’ down his throat.

Just as he was dhrainin’ the last dhrop in comes the sogers to the shop, an’ of course they had to confess they couldn’t find King James on the premises. The sargeant tould ’em of his bargain wud Jimmy, an’ ’twas right glad they wor when they heard of it; an’ they all sampled the stuff wud as much aise as the sargeant.

“Now,” says Jimmy, “we must lower the cask on to this little throlly here; an’ go to work gently, boys, or maybe some of the brine would find its way through the pores of the puncheon, an’ you’d have the captain of the vessel dockin’ me for short delivery.”

Well, the four men got the cask safely mounted on the little throlly an’ Jimmy opened the shop door.

“Here,” says he, “let wan of you stand at aich side of the cask to study it, an’ two more of you take howld of the rope.”

“I’ll tell you a betther an’ a quicker way,” says the sargeant. “Two of us can stand at aich side of the barrel an’ we’ll harness four horses on to the throlly. The other two men can remain here to keep shop for you, Misther Landlord, an’ we’ll be at the ship an’ back again for the three gallons before the clock will sthrike seven.”

“A great idaya!” says Jimmy, “an’ I’ll lock up the whisky while ye’re harnessin’ the horses.”

It was about a quarther to seven when they started from the “Royal Oak,” an’ in less than five minutes they were gallopin’ along the quay in grand style, until Jimmy cried “Halt!” as they came abreast of Pat Gorman’s lugger.

The fifty horse-sogers were by this time linein’ the quays, an’ wan of ’em had planted himself just outside Pat Gorman’s craft.

“Make way there for pickled pork!” shouted the sargeant, as the throlly dhrew up alongside the sentinel.

“Aisy a bit!” says the sentinel. “We have ordhers to examine everything that comes aboord.”

“This is only pork, man,” says the sargeant. “I’m afther examinin’ it meself;” for ’tis in dhread he was of any delay that would keep him from hurryin’ back to the three-gallon measure.

“In that case,” says the sentinel, “we’ll pass it along, sargeant; an’ what’s the manein’ of your convartin’ yourself into a thransport?”

“I’d think you’d best promise him a share of the whisky,” whispers Jimmy to the sargeant; “for ’tis a dacent man he is not to be delayin’ us wud the usual red-tape regulations.”

“All right,” says the sargeant “I’m agreeable.” An’ then he towld the sentinel all about the bargain he sthruck wid Jimmy Murphy.

“Here’s a sample of the stuff,” says Jimmy, offerin’ a flask of it to the sentinel. “An’ now, boys,” says he, turning to the sogers that wor on fut, “unload the pork and rowl the barrel aboord by the stage, for ’tis as near high wather as it well can be.”

Poor James the Second was in a dead sleep by this time, as Jimmy partly guessed he would be, so the unloadin’ of the cask from the throlly and the rowlin’ of it aboord the ship didn’t inconvaynience him in the laiste.

Of coorse Jimmy went aboord an’ whispered a few words on the quiet into Pat Gorman’s ears, an’ when the cask was safe an’ snug on the ship’s deck he shuk the skipper by the hand, an’ says he,—

“Don’t broach the pork until ye’re outside the harbour, for ’tis a tendher piece of mate.”

Thin, Jimmy and the sogers walked ashore and in no time the stage was taken off the lugger; an’ as the town clock was sthrikin’ seven Pat Gorman’s ship started out into the sthrame an’ was soon out of sighth behind Crummle’s Rock.

An’, wudout a word of a lie, that’s the way poor James the Second escaped from Watherford to France.

[Illustration: THE LAST OF THE DRAGONS.]

[Illustration: (banner) THE LAST OF THE DRAGONS.]

It was a fine spring mornin’, an’ Saint Pathrick, when he saw the first sighth of the sun peepin’ in through the blinds of his windy, thought he’d tumble at wance out of bed an’ have a gallop across counthry to settle his stomach before breakfast.

He was afther puttin’ a hard night of it over him, an’ he didn’t feel very comfortable in himself, so he just poured a jug of cowld wather over his head an’ gave himself a few dabs of a towel and downstairs he crept, of coorse after fixin’ on his clothes.

He was on a visit this time in the County Limerick wud a neighbour of his, another Saint, but wan that couldn’t howld a candle to Saint Pathrick in discoorsin’, or card-playin’; an’ as he knew his frind was a light sleeper an’ a late riser he made as little noise as he could gettin’ out of the house. He just took a top hat off of a big nail in the hall, an’ goin’ round to the stable he bitted his horse an’ fixed him for the ride wud his own two fists, an’ then he jumped into the saddle as active as a circus man.

On he rode, anyhow, thinkin’ hard to himself what more good he could do in the ould counthry.

“I’m afther convartin’ all the kings an’ the princes an’ such like,” says he to himself; “an’ betther than that,” says he, “I’m afther banishin’ every sarpint an’ other varmint clane out of the land. I left ’em the fox, of coorse, for ’tis a fine huntin’ people they are, an’ all pray and no play makes Pat a dull boy; but I flatther myself that afther the curse I read agen the reptiles there isn’t as much as a toad ’ud dar’ to show his snout on Irish soil. ’Tis a great man intirely I am!” says he, diggin’ the spurs into the horse; an’ sure there was small blame to him to be proud of himself.

Well, the words wor scarcely out of his mouth whin he lifted his head to have a look at the sky; an’ begor, the screech he let out of him frightened the poor animal he was ridin’ into a canther.

“Be good to me!” says he, “but ’tis snakes, I see.”

Naaturally he felt ’twould play the mischief wud him if it ever came to be heard he was in such a desperate condition, an’ cursin’ the hard livin’ he had been enjoyin’ wud the other Saint, he was about turnin’ tail an’ throttin’ home in despair when he felt his own horse thremblin’ all over like a jelly-fish.

“Maybe, afther all,” says Saint Pathrick to himself, “it’s a raal live dhragon I sees on the horizon, sent to me as a punishment for my pride.”

So he lifts his head wance more, an’ studys himself in the saddle, an’ puttin’ wan hand over his brows, he mutthers,—

“Oh begor, there’s no mistake about it! ’Tis a rale dhragon, sure enough, an’ a cunnin’ ould rascal too if I’m any judge of the likes of him. That fellow is three hundred year ould at the very laiste, an’ where the mischief he could have been hidin’ is a fair puzzle to me. No matther,” says he, “I’ll prayche a sarmon agen him that’ll dhraw all the venom out of him or I’ll know for what. Get along now, good horse,” says he, “an’ let us see what we can do for this play-acthor.”

So the Saint rides on a few hundhred yards until he gets within hailin’ distance of the dhragon, purtendin’ all the time he hadn’t persayved him.

As soon as the dhragon, who was about six hundhred feet from the tip of his snout to the end of his tail, sees the man on horseback, he gives a chuckle to himself, and says he,—

“Begor, it never rains but it pours! I haven’t had a male ashore for nearly a twelvemonth, on account of that cursed Saint Pathrick, an’ here on my first mornin’s journey I comes across a man an’ horse almost at daybreak. There’s a dale of bone about the baste,” says he; “but we mustn’t look gift horses in the ribs.” An’ wud that he bursts out laughin’ an’ sends a blast of fire out of his mouth right in the direction of Saint Pathrick. “That’ll give him pepper,” says he, dhrawin’ in his breath.

“Phew!” says Saint Pathrick, addhressin’ his horse. “That’s the game, is it? Well, I’ve often heard tell of blowin’ a kiss to a party by way of good morra, but fire an’ sulphur is a new sort of a way of axin’ a man how-do-you-do. Never mind his blasts, ould horse,” says he, pattin’ the animal on the neck; “I’ve said the prayers agen dhragons already, an’ naither hurt nor harm can come to us.”

The horse gave a neigh out of him just as much as to say, “I quite understands you,” an’ on Saint Pathrick throts until he gets right abreast of the varmint.

“Good morra, good man,” says the dhragon, complately at a loss to undherstand how it was that the blasts of fire an’ smoke he was sendin’ out of him didn’t seem to throuble the sthranger. “It’s a mighty sthrong stomach you must have to howld out agen the sulphur fumes.”

“Sulphur, is it!” says Saint Pathrick. “Sure, I partly lives on it. I takes it with thraycle every mornin’, an’ fine wholesome stuff it is.”

“Bad luck to it!” says the dhragon, feelin’ a bit nonplushed, “I suppose that’s wan of the new dodges this divil of a Saint Pathrick is afther taychin’ the people of this misfortunate counthry.”

Of coorse Saint Pathrick knew for sartin then that the dhragon didn’t recognize him, so he made up his mind to have a bit of a play wud him before banishin’ him intirely.

“An’ where have you been,” says he, “that you didn’t hear of the new rules an’ regulations about craychurs of your kind?”

“What’s that to you?” says the dhragon, who had no intintion of lettin’ anybody know where his hidin’ hole was.

“You might keep a civil tongue in your head, anyhow,” says Saint Pathrick. “Civility is chape, an’, if you’ll be said by me, you’ll thry to save those fumes of fire an’ sulphur that you’re spittin’ out there for some betther land, for no more on Irish soil have you the laiste chance of harmin’ a son or a daughther of Erin. That’s wan of the new rules and regulations, Misther Dhragon,” says Saint Pathrick, nearly out of breath afther the long spayche.

“Mighty fine bounce intirely!” says the dhragon. “Wan ’ud think ’twas Saint Pathrick himself you wor by the darin’ manner you have. An’ now,” says he, “as I haven’t much time to spare I must only just make wan male of the pair of yez. I’m sorry I can’t make two coorses of ye, but I’m in no end of a hurry an’ as hungry as a Friar on Ash Wednesday.”

Wud that the dhragon opened his mouth so wide that you cud see about two or three hundred feet of his inside, an’ the two fangs he had at aich corner of his jaw stud up like a pair of telegraph poles.

Saint Pathrick got a bit of a turn at the sighth, for this was the biggest dhragon he’d ever seen in all his thravels, but he just said a short prayer, an’ begor, there was the dhragon fixed to the spot wud his mouth wide open just like the enthrance of a cave.

“That’s what we calls lockjaw,” says Saint Pathrick, wud a hearty laugh. “I hopes you enjoy it. That’s another of the new rules and regulations, my sweet fellow. Now maybe you’d keep a civil tongue in your head if I gev you the chance again, an’ talk less of breakin’ yer fast off meself an’ the horse.”

There was an implorin’ look in the dhragon’s eye just as much as to say, “Sure you know I have no chance agen you, an’ of coorse I’ll be civil-spoken if you gives me wan more opportunity.” An’ Saint Pathrick seein’ this said another prayer, an’ down dropped the baste’s jaws wud a snap as loud as the burstin’ of a cannon-piece.

“O murdher!” says the dhragon, wud a sigh out of him like half a gale of win’; “but that’s the mischief’s own rule an’ regulation. An’ what may your name be, your honour?” says he.

“Well, as you axes a civil questhion,” says the Saint, “I’ll give you a civil answer. My name is Saint Pathrick.”

“Saint Pathrick!” shouted the dhragon. “Oh what cursed luck druv’ you in my road this mornin’?”

“Take care of yer langwidge, now,” says Saint Pathrick, “or maybe I’d give you a taste of another new rule an’ regulation. An’ now that we undherstands aich other, might I ax you how dar’ you remain in the counthry afther my ordhers that all the varmint wor to be banished?”

“I’m no varmint,” says the dhragon, pluckin’ up courage again; “an’ whether I am or not I have a laygal right to remain in the land of my forefathers.”

“Arrah whisht!” says Saint Pathrick, “an’ don’t be thryin’ to rise my timper. Of coorse you’re varmint, an’ bad varmint too.”

“You wrong me there,” says the dhragon, “for I’m a descindant of an ould anshent king, an’ ’twas by witchcraft I was changed at nurse.”

Of coorse the dhragon knew right well that himself an’ all his family for generations wor the dirtiest set of bla’guard dhragons that ever blasted a counthry, but he thought he’d work on the Saint’s feelin’s by tellin’ him the yarn about his bein’ an’ Irish prince that was changed at nurse.

“Show me your certificate of baptism,” says Saint Pathrick, “an’ I’ll believe you, but not before.”

“I left it at home on the dhresser,” says the dhragon, in a thremblin’ voice.

“Well, I don’t mind ridin’ wud you to see if it’s the thruth you’re tellin’ me; but mark you,” says Saint Pathrick, “if it’s bringin’ me on a wild goose chase you are, I’ll thransmogrify you into a laughing jackass an’ ordher you to the sayside for the little boys an’ girls to ride about on in the summer time; an’ a sayside donkey you’ll remain until the Day of Judgment, like the wandherin’ Jew.”

“Oh murdher!” says the dhragon. “Sure ’twould be better go to the knacker’s at wance than that, an’ to tell you the thruth—for I see there’s no use in thryin’ to desayve you—I lost the paper hundhreds of years ago, but take my word for it, blessed Saint Pathrick, I’m not a dhragon by breed at all.”

“Prove it, as I said before,” says the Saint, “an’ I’ll see what’s to be done for you.”

Of coorse the dhragon knew he couldn’t prove the lie, an’ he bethought him he’d thry and palaver the Saint a bit, so says he,—

“I know you’re afther doin’ a dale of good for the counthry, for between ourselves most of the varmint here wor a dirty lot, an’ ’twas right glad I was to hear your own sweet self had made a clane sweep of ’em. I was thinkin’ often, many centuries back, of turnin’ informer agen the whole thribe of ’em, an’ only I got a bad touch of rheumatics about twenty-five year ago, which kept me on the bed ever since, I’d have been the first to give your own self a welcome in these parts.”

An’ then clearin’ his throat he began to sing out in a voice like a second-hand foghorn, “The dear little Shamrock.”

Begor, Saint Pathrick got such a fit of laughin’ at the dhragon’s way of singin’ a song that he nearly fell off his horse.

“’Tis the divil’s playboy you are,” says he. “Tell me,” says he, “fair an’ honest, are you afther comin’ straight from the County Cork?”

“I am,” says the dhragon, turnin’ the colour of mouldy cheese. “An’ how the mischief do you know that?”

“I know mostly everything,” says the Saint.

“So it seems,” says the dhragon, lookin’ more on aisey than ever. “What you don’t know, Pathrick,” says he, thryin’ to humour the dacent man, “isn’t worth larnin’ or I’m no judge of characther.”

“There you’re wrong,” says Saint Pathrick. “However, I’m purty sartin on wan point and that is that your afther kissin’ the Blarney Stone.”

“Well, don’t be talkin’,” says the dhragon, “but the knowledge that’s in you is enough to make me blush to the roots of my tail wud envy.”

“It’s thrue, isn’t it?” says the Saint.

“’Tis,” says the dhragon. “Just as I was abreast of Spike Island it sthruck me I’d venture inland an’ have a look at the sighths, for ’tis often I heard tell of the vartues of the Blarney Stone.”

All this time Saint Pathrick was dyin’ of curiosity to know where the mischief this dhragon was while he was deliverin’ the curse which banished the reptiles, but of coorse he didn’t like to let on to a dhragon that he was ignorant of anything. The remark about Spike Island gev him a kind of a sort of an idaya, an’ says he,—

“’Tis fond of a swim you are, Misther Dhragon.”

“You’re right there,” says the dhragon; “but how the mischief you knows all about my feelin’s an’ habits is a hardher puzzle to me every minute.”

“I towld you there wor some things I didn’t know,” says Saint Pathrick, who was never ashamed of tellin’ the thruth; “an’ if you’ll enlighten me on a few points, fair an’ honest, mind you, I’ll make an honourable thratey wud you.”

“It’s a bargain,” says the dhragon, nearly ready to jump out of his scales at the notion of makin’ an honourable thratey wud the great persecuthor of the dhragon thribe. “I’ll tell you anything you axes, wudout a word of a lie, if you passes your promise to spare my life, for as dhragons go I’m only in the prime of manhood.”

“All right,” says Saint Pathrick. “I’ll tell you the terms of the thratey when you answers my queshtions, but mind that ’tis the thruth you tell me, for ’tis the divil’s own liar you are.”

“Fire away,” says the dhragon, “an’ I’ll answer you sthraight, for I know ’tis useless to thry an’ bamboozle a larned saint like yerself.”

“Where wor you the day I banished all the varmint from this counthry?”