“You were about to obsarve, Father Cassidy,” says his Majesty, bowing low—“your most obaydient sir!”
“I was about to say,” cried his Riverence, “that you’re a friend of Sattin!”
“I’ll not deny that,” says the King; “what have you to say agin him?”
“He’s a rogue and a rapscallion and the inemy of mankind!” tundered Father Cassidy.
“Prove he’s a rogue!” cries the King, slapping one hand on the other; “and why shouldn’t he be the inemy of mankind? What has mankind iver done for him except to lay the blame of every mane, cowardly thrick of its own on his chowlders. Wasn’t it on their account he was put inside of the swine and dhrove into the say? Wasn’t it bekase of them he spint sivin days and sivin nights in the belly of a whale, wasn’t it—”
“Stop there, now!” says Father Cassidy, pinting his finger; “hould where you are—that was Jonah.”
“You’re working meracles to make me forget!” shouted the King.
“I’m not!” cried the priest, “and what’s more, if you’ll agree not to use charms of the black art to help yourself, I’ll promise not to work meracles agin you.”
“Done! I’ll agree,” says the King, “and with that bargain I’ll go on first, and I’ll prove that mankind is the inemy of Sattin.”
“Who begun the inmity?” intherrupted his Riverence; “who started in be tempting our first parents?”
“Not wishing to make little of a man’s relaytions in his own house or to his own face, but your first parents were a poor lot,” said the King. “Didn’t your first parent turn quane’s evidence agin his own wife? Answer me that!”
“Undher the sarcumstances, would ye have him tell a lie whin he was asked?” says the priest right back.
Well, the argyment got hotter and hotter until Darby’s mind was in splinthers. Sometimes he sided with Ould Nick, sometimes he was agin him. Half of what they said he didn’t undherstand. They talked Tayology, Conchology, and Distrology, they hammered aich other with Jayography, Orthography, and Misnography, they welted aich other with Hylosophy, Philosophy, and Thrimosophy. They bounced up and down in their sates, they shouted and got purple in the face. But every argyment brought out another nearly as good and twict as loud.
Through all this time the follyers of the King sat upon their perches or lay upon the table motionless, like little wooden images with painted green cloaks and brown caps.
Darby, looking from one to the other of them for help to undherstand the thraymendous argyment that was goin’ on, felt his brain growin’ numb. At last it balked like Shamus Free’s donkey, and urge as he would, the divil a foot his mind’d stir afther the two hayros. It turned at last and galloped back to Mrs. Morrisey’s wake.
Now, thin, the thought that came into Darby’s head as he sat there ferninst Father Cassidy an’ the King was this:
“The two wisest persons in Ireland are this minute shouting and disputing before me own turf fire. If I ax them those questions, I’ll be wiser than Maurteen Cavanaugh, the schoolmaster, an’ twict as wise as any other man in this parish. I’ll do it,” he says to himself.
He raised the tongs and struck them so loud and quick against the hearth that the two daybaters stopped short in their talk to look at him.
“Tell me,” he says—“lave off and tell me who was the greatest man that ever lived?” says he.
At that a surprising thing happened. Brian Connors and Father Cassidy, aich striving to speak first, answered in the same breath and gave the same name.
“Dan’le O’Connell,” says they.
There was at that the instant’s silence an’ stillness which follys a great explosion of gunpowdher.
Thin every subject of the King started to his feet.
“Three cheers for Dan’le O’Connell!” cried little Roderick Dhue. Every brown cap was swung in the air. “Hooray! Hooray! Hooroo!” rang the cheers.
His Riverence and the fairy-chief turned sharp about and stared at each other, delighted and wondhering.
Darby sthruck agin with the tongs. “Who was the greatest poet?” says he.
Agin the two spoke together. “Tom Moore,” says they. The King rubbed his hands and gave a glad side look at the priest. Darby marked the friendly light that was stealing into Father Cassidy’s brown eyes. There was great excitement among the Good People up on the cupboard shelves.
On the table little Nial, the wise, was thrying to start three cheers for Father Cassidy, when Darby said agin: “Who was the greatest warrior?” he says.
The kitchen grew still as death, aich of the two hayros waiting for the other.
The King spoke first. “Brian Boru,” says he.
“No,” says Father Cassidy, half laughing; “Owen Roe O’Nale.”
Phadrig Oge jumped from the churn. “Owen Roe forever! I always said it!” cries he. “Look at this man, boys,” he says, pinting up to the priest. “There’s the making of the foinest bishop in Ireland!”
“The divil a much differ betwixt Owen Roe an’ Brian Boru! ’Tis one of them two, an’ I don’t care which!” says the King.
The priest and the King sank back in their chairs, eyeing aich other with admayration.
Darby powered something out of a jug into three brown stone noggins, and then turned hot wather from the kittle, on top of that agin.
Says the King to the clargyman, “You’re the cleverest and the knowingest man I’ve met in five thousand years. That joult you gave me about Jonah was a terror!”
“I never saw your ayquil! If we could only send you to Parliament, you’d free Ireland!” says Father Cassidy. “To think,” says he, “that once I used to believe there was no such thing as fairies!”
“That was bekase you were shuperstitious,” says the King. “Everyone is so, more or less. I am meself—a little,” says he.
Darby was stirrin’ spoons in the three steaming noggins and Father Cassidy was looking throubled.
What would his flock say to see him dhrinking punch with a little ould pagin, who was the friend of Ould Nick?
“Your health!” says the King, houlding up the cup.
His Riverence took
