“Well, I saw at once that at the bottom of all was the ould, ould question, which has been disthurbin’ the worruld an’ dhrivin’ people crazy for three thousand years.”
“I know,” says Darby, scornful, “ ’twas whither the hin that laid the egg or the hin that hatched the egg is the mother of the young chicken.”
“An’ nothin’ else but that!” cried the King, surprised. “Now, what d’ye think I daycided?” he says.
Now, yer honour, I’ll always blame Darby for not listening to the King’s daycision, bekase ’tis a matther I’ve studied meself considherable, an’ never could rightly con‑clude; but Darby at the time was so bothered that he only said, in rayply to the King:
“Sure, it’s little I know, an’ sorra little I care,” he says, sulky. “I’ve something more important than hin’s eggs throubling me mind, an’ maybe ye can help me,” he says, anxious.
“Arrah, out with it, man,” says the King. “We’ll find a way, avourneen,” he says, cheerful.
With that Darby up an’ toult everything that had happened Halloween night an’ since, an’, indeed, be sayin’: “Now, here’s that broken piece of comb in me pocket, an’ what to do with it I don’t know. Will ye take it to the banshee, King?” he says.
The King turned grave as a goat. “I wouldn’t touch that thing in yer pocket, good friends as we are, to save yer life—not for a hundhred pounds. It might give them power over me. Yours is the only mortial hand that ever touched the banshee’s comb, an’ yours is the hand that should raystore it.”
“Oh, my, look at that, now,” says Darby, in despair, nodding his head very solemn.
“Besides,” says the King, without noticin’ him, “there’s only one ghost in Croaghmah I ’ssociate with—an’ that’s Shaun. They are mostly oncultavayted, an’ I almost said raydundant. Although I’d hate to call anyone raydundant onless I had to,” says the just-minded ould man.
“I’ll trow it here in the road an’ let some of them find it,” says Darby, dusperate. “I’ll take the chanst,” says he.
The King was shocked, an’, trowing up a warnin’ hand, he says:
“Be no manner of manes,” the fairy says, “you forget that thim ghosts were once min an’ women like yerself, so whin goold’s consarned they’re not to be thrusted. If one should find the comb he mightn’t give it to the banshee at all—he might turn ’bezzler an’ ’buzzle it. No, no, you must give it to herself pursnal, or else you an’ Bridget an’ the childher’ll be ha’nted all yer days. An’ there’s no time to lose, ayther,” says he.
“But Bridget an’ the childher’s waitin’ for me this minute,” wailed Darby. “An’ the pony, what’s become of her? An’ me supper?” he cried.
A little lad who was marchin’ just ahead turned an’ spoke up.
“The pony’s tied in the stable, an’ Bothered Bill has gone sneakin’ off to McCloskey’s,” the little man says. “I saw thim as I flew past.”
“Phadrig!” shouted the King. “Donnell! Conn! Nial! Phelim!” he called.
With that the little min named rose from the ranks, their cloaks spread, an’ come flyin’ back like big green buttherflies, an’ they sthopped huvering in the air above Darby an’ the King.
“What’s wanted?” axed Phelim.
“Does any of yez know where the banshee’s due at this hour?” the King rayplied.
“She’s due in County Roscommon at Castle O’Flinn, if I don’t misraymimber,” spoke up the little fiddler. “But I’m thinking that since Halloween she ain’t worrukin’ much, an’ purhaps she won’t lave Croaghmah.”
“Well, has any one of yez seen Shaun the night, I dunno?” axed the master.
“Sorra one of me knows,” says Phadrig. “Nor I,” “Nor I,” “Nor I,” cried one afther the other.
“Well, find where the banshee’s stayin’,” says King Brian. “An’ some of yez, exceptin’ Phadrig, go look for Shaun, an’ tell him I want to see him purtic’lar,” says the King.
The foive huvering little lads wanished like a candle that’s blown out.
“As for you, Phadrig,” wint on the masther fairy, “tell the ridgiment they’re to guard this townland the night, an’ keep the ghosts out of it. Begin at once!” he commanded.
The worruds wern’t well said till the whole ridgiment had blown itself out, an’ agin the night closed in as black as yer hat. But as it did Darby caught a glimpse from afar of the goolden light of his own open door, an’ he thought he could see on the thrashol the shadow of Bridget, with one of the childher clinging to her skirt, an’ herself watchin’ with a hand shading her eyes.
“Do you go home to yer supper, me poor man,” says the King, “an’ meantime I’ll engage Shaun to guide us to the banshee. He’s a great comerade of hers, an’ he’ll paycificate her if anyone can.”
The idee of becomin’ acquainted pursonal with the ghosts, an’ in a friendly, pleasant way have dalings with them, was a new sinsation to Darby. “What’ll I do now?” he axed.
“Go home to yer supper,” says the King, “an’ meet me by the withered three at Conroy’s crass-roads on the sthroke of twelve. There’ll be little danger tonight, I’m thinkin’, but if ye should run against one of thim spalpeens trow the bit of comb at him; maybe he’ll take it to the banshee an’ maybe he won’t. At any rate, ’tis the best yez can do.”
“Don’t keep me waitin’ on the crass-roads, whatever else happens,” warned Darby.
“I’ll do me best endayvour,”
