“I believe in my sowl,” says the Man without Childher, mighty rayproachful, “you’re only a fairy! But if that’s what you are, you must have charms and spells. Now, turn yourself into a purty, harmless infant this minute—have red hair, like the Mulligan childher at that—or I’ll break every bone in your body!”
There was blazing anger in the King’s eye and withering scorn in his woice.
“Ignorant man,” he cried, “don’t you know that betwixt cockcrow in the morning and sunset the Good People can work no spell or charm. If you don’t lave me down I’ll have a mark on you and on all your relaytions the world’ll wondher at!”
But the divil a bit frightened was Casey.
He started in to help the charm along as one would thry to make a watch go. He shook the King slowly from side to side, thin joggled him softly up and down, mutthering earnestly betwixt his teeth, “Go on, now, you little haythen, change this minute, you scorpion of the world; come, come, twisht yourself!”
What the little King was saying all this time you must guess at, for I’m not bitther-tongued enough to repayt it.
Seeing that not a hair changed for all his work, Barney wrapped Maureen’s shawl about the King and started for home, saying: “Hould your whist! It’s a child I must have to be baptised this day. It’ll be hard to manage, but I have a plan! You came as a child, and you’ll be thrated as such—and look, if you don’t quit kicking me in the stomach, I’ll strangle you!”
As you know, to say pious words to one of the Good People is worse than cutting him with a knife, to show him pious pictures is like burning him, but to baptise a fairy is the most turrible punishment in the whole worruld.
As they went along, the King argyed, besought and threatened, but he talked to stone.
At last, although he had but the strength of a six-year-old child, the Captain of the Good People showed what high spirit was in him.
“Set me down, you thief,” he says. “I challenge you! If you have a dhrop of your mother’s blood in you, set me ferninst you with sticks in our hands, so we can fight it out like men!”
“No, it’s not needful,” says Barney, cool as ice; “but in a few minutes I’ll shave every hair from your head, and afther that make a fine Christian out of you. It’s glad and thankful for it you ought to be, you wicious, ugly little pagan scoundhrel!”
Well, the King let a roar out of him: “You bandy-legged villain!” he cried—and then whirled in to abuse the Man without Childher. He insulted him in English, he jeered him in Irish, he thrajooced him in Latin and Roosian, but the most awful crash of blaggarding that was known in Ireland since the world began was when the King used the Chinayse.
Casey looked wonder and admiraytion, but made no answer till the little man was out of breath, when he spoke up like a judge.
“Well, if there’s any crather within the earth’s four corners that needs baptising it’s you, little man. But I’ll not thrajooce you any more, for you’re me own little Romulus or Raymus,” he says, scratching his head. Then of a sudden he broke out excitedly, “Now may four kinds of bad luck fall on your proud head this day, Mrs. Brophy, and four times heavier ones on you, Ann Mulligan, and may the curse of Cromwell light on you now and forever, Ted Murphy, the bachelor, for pushing yerselves here at this early hour in the morning!”
For the sight that met his eyes knocked every plan out of his head.
Long before the time she was expected, sailing down the road to his own house, happy and slow, came Ann Mulligan, carrying in her arms her two-weeks-old baby, Patsy Mulligan. With motion like a two-masted schooner, tacking in her pride from side to side, up the road came big Mrs. Brophy, the proud woman, carrying her little Cornaylius; behind Mrs. Brophy marched bashful Ted Murphy, the bachelor, his hands behind his back, his head bent like a captive, but stepping high. Not with the sheep-stealing air men are used to wear at christenings and weddings did Ted Murphy hop along, but with the look on his face of a man who had just been thried, convicted, sentenced, and who expects in few minutes to be hung for sheep-stealing.
They were come an hour before the time to bring the child to the church.
Beside the door stood Judy, straining her eyes to know what Barney had hiding in the bundle, and with an awful fear in her heart that he had robbed some near neighbour’s cradle.
Well, Barney at once broke into a run so as to get inside the house with the King, and to close the door before the others got there, but as luck would have it, the whole party met upon the threshold and crowded in with him.
“Oh, the little darling; give us a sight of the poor crachure,” says Mrs. Mulligan, laying Patsy on the bed.
“He’s mine first, if you plaze,” says Mrs. Brophy, the proud woman.
“He’s sick,” says Barney—“too sick to be uncovered.”
“Is he too sick to go to church?” broke in Ted Murphy, eagerly, hoping to get rid of his job.
“He is,” says Barney, catching at a chance for delay.
“Then,” says Ted, with joy in his woice, “I’ll run and bring Father Scanlan to the house. I’ll be back with him in tunty minutes,” says he.
Before anyone could stop the gawk, he was flying down the road to the village. Casey felt his bundle shiver.
“I’ll have your life’s blood for this!” the King whuspered, as Barney laid him on the bed betwixt the two childher.
“Come out! come out!” cries Casey, spreading his arms
