The place of honor on the right wall was given to Darby’s fourth cousin, Phelem McFadden, an’ he was painted with a pair of handcuffs on him. Wullum O’Gill had a squint in his right eye, and his thin legs bowed like hoops on a barrel.
If you have ever at night been groping your way through a dark room, and got a sudden hard bump on the forehead from the edge of the door, you can understand the feelings of the knowledgeable man.
“Take that picture out!” he said hoarsely, as soon as he could speak. “An’ will someone kindly inthrojuice me to the man who med it. Bekase,” he says, “I intend to take his life. There was never a crass-eyed O’Gill since the world began,” says he.
Think of his horror an’ surprise whin he saw the left eye of Wullum O’Gill twist itself slowly over toward his nose and squint worse than the right eye.
Purtending not to see this, an’ hoping no one else did, Darby fiercely led the way over to the other wall.
Fronting him stood the handsome picture of Honoria O’Shaughnessy, an’ she dhressed in a shuit of tin clothes, like the knights of ould used to wear—armour I think they calls it.
She hildt a spear in her hand, with a little flag on the blade, an’ her smile was proud and high.
“Take that likeness out too,” says Darby, very spiteful. “That’s not a dacint shuit of clothes for any woman to wear.”
The next minute you might have knocked him down with a feather, for the picture of Honoria O’Shaughnessy opened its mouth and stuck out its tongue at him.
“The supper’s getting cowld, the supper’s getting cowld,” someone cried at the other ind of the picture gallery Two big doors were swung open, an’ glad enough was our poor hayro to folly the musicianers down to the room where the ateing an’ drinking were to be thransacted.
This was a little room with lots of looking-glasses, and it was bright with a thousand candles, and white with the shiningest marble. On the table was biled beef an’ reddishes an’ carrots an’ roast mutton an’ all kinds of important ateing an’ drinking. Beside these stood fruits an’ sweets an’—but sure what is the use in talkin’?
A high-backed chair stood ready for aich of the family, an’ ’twas a lovely sight to see them all whin they were sitting there—Darby at the head, Bridget at the foot, the childher—the poor little paythriarchs—sitting bolt upright on aich side, with a bewigged and befrilled serving man standing haughty behind every chair.
The ating and dhrinkin’ would have begun at once—in troth there was already a bit of biled beef on Darby’s plate—only that he spied a little silver bell beside him. Sure, ’twas one like those the quality keep to ring whin they want more hot wather for their punch, but it puzzled the knowledeable man, and ’twas the beginning of his misfortune.
“I wondher,” he thought, “if ’tis here for the same raison as the bell is at the Curragh races—do they ring this one so that all at the table will start ating an’ drinking fair, an’ no one will have the advantage; or is it,” he says to himself agin, “to ring whin the head of the house thinks everyone has had enough? Haven’t the quality quare ways! I’ll be a long time learning them,” he says.
He sat silent and puzzling an’ staring at the biled beef on his plate, afeared to start in without ringing the bell, an’ dhreading to risk ringing it. The grand servants towered cowldly on every side, their chins tilted, but they kep’ throwing over their chowlders glances so scornful and haughty that Darby shivered at the thought of showing any uncultivaytion.
While our hayro sat thus in unaisy contimplaytion an’ smouldhering mortification an’ flurried hesitaytion, a powdhered head was poked over his chowlder, and a soft beguiling woice said, “Is there anything else you’d wish for?”
The foolish lad twisted in his chair, opened his mouth to spake, and gave a look at the bell; shame rushed to his, cheeks, he picked up a bit of the biled beef on his fork, an’ to consale his turpitaytion gave the misfortunit answer:
“I’d wish for a pinch of salt, if you plaze,” says he.
’Twas no sooner said than came the crash. Oh, tunderation an’ murdheration, what a roaring crash it was! The lights winked out together at a breath, an’ left a pitchy, throbbing darkness. Overhead and to the sides was a roaring, smashing, crunching noise, like the ocean’s madness when the winthry storm breaks agin the Kerry shore; an’ in that roar was mingled the tearing and the splitting of the walls and the falling of the chimneys. But through all this confusion could be heard the shrill laughing woice of the Leprechaun. “The clever man med his fourth grand wish,” it howled.
Darby—a thousand wild woices screaming an’ mocking above him—was on his back, kicking and squirming and striving to get up, but some load hilt him down an’ something bound his eyes shut.
“Are you kilt, Bridget asthore?” he cried; “where are the childher?” he says.
Instead of answer, there suddenly flashed a fierce an’ angry silence, an’ its quickness frightened the lad more than all the wild confusion before.
’Twas a full minute before he dared to open his eyes to face the horrors which he felt were standing about him; but when courage enough to look came, all he saw was the night-covered mountain, a purple sky, and a thin new moon, with one trembling goold star a hand’s space above its bosom.
Darby struggled to his feet. Not a stone of the castle was left, not a sod of turf but what was in its ould place; every sign of the little cobbler’s work had
