And at them words the great blaggard cloud closed in on the moon and left the worruld as black as yer hat.
That wasn’t the worst of it by no manner of manes, for at the same instant there came a rush of wind, an’ with it a low, hollow rumble that froze the marrow in Darby’s bones. He sthrained his eyes toward the sound, but it was so dark he couldn’t see his hand before his face.
He thried to run, but his legs turned to blocks of wood and dayfied him.
All the time the rumble of the turrible coach dhrew nearer an’ nearer, an’ he felt himself helpless as a babe. He closed his eyes to shut out the horror of the headless dhriver an’ of the poor, dead men laning back agin the sate.
At that last minute a swift hope that the King might be within hearing lent him a flash of strength, and he called out the byword.
“Cabbage an’ bacon!” he cried out, dispairing. “Cabbage an’ bacon’ll stop the heart achin’!” he roared, dismally, an’ then he gave a great gasp, for there was a splash in the road ferninst the three, an’ a thraymendous black coach, with four goint horses an’ a coachman on the box, stood still as death before him.
The dhriver wore a brown greatcoat, the lines hung limp in his fingers, an’ Darby’s heart sthopped palpitaytin’ at the sight of the two broad, headless chowlders.
The knowledgeable man sthrove to cry out agin, but he could only croak like a raven.
“Cabbage an’ bacon’ll stop the heart achin’,” he says.
Something moved inside the coach. “Foolish man,” a woice cried, “you’ve not only guv the byword, but at the same time you’ve shouted out its answer!”
At the woice of the King—for ’twas the King who spoke—a great wakeness came over Darby, an’ he laned limp agin the three.
“Suppose,” the King went on, “that it was an inemy you’d met up with instead of a friend. Tare an’ ’ounds! he’d have our saycret and maybe he’d put the comeither on ye. Shaun,” he says, up to the dhriver, “this is the human bean we’re to take with us down to Croaghmah to meet the banshee.”
From a place down on the sate on the far side of the dhriver a deep, slow woice, that sounded as though it had fur on it, spoke up:
“I’m glad to substantiate any sarvice that will in any way conjuice to the amaylyro-ra-tion of any friend of the raynounded King Brian Connors, even though that friend be only a human bean. I was a humble human bean meself three or four hundhred years ago.”
At that statement Darby out of politeness thried to look surprised.
“You must be a jook or an earl, or some other rich pillosopher, to have the most raynouned fairy in the worruld take such a shine to you,” wint on the head.
“Haven’t ye seen enough to make yerself like him?” cried the King, raising half his body through the open windy. “Didn’t ye mark how ca’m an’ bould he stood waitin’ for ye, whin any other man in Ireland would be this time have wore his legs to the knees runnin’ from ye? Where is the pillosopher except Darby O’Gill who would have guessed that ’twas meself that was in the coach, an’ would have flung me the by-worrud so careless and handy?” cried the King, his face blazing with admyration.
The worruds put pride into the heart of our hayro, an’ pride the worruld over is the twin sisther of courage. And then, too, whilst the King was talkin’ that deep, obsthreperous cloud which had covered the sky slipped off the edge of the moon an’ hurried to jine its fellows, who were waiting for it out over the ocean. And the moon, to make a-minds for its late obscuraytion, showered down sudden a flood of such cheerful, silver light that the drooping, separate leaves and the glistening blades of grass lept up clane an’ laughin’ to the eye. Some of that cheer wint into Darby’s breast, an’ with it crept back fresh his ould confidence in his champyion, the King.
But the headless dhriver was talking. “O’Gill,” says the slow woice agin, “did I hear ye say O’Gill, Brian Connors? Surely not one of the O’Gills of Ballinthubber?”
Darby answered rayluctant an’ haughty, for he had a feeling that the monsther was goin’ to claim relaytionship, an’ the idee put a bad taste in his mouth. “All me father’s people came from Ballinthubber,” he says.
“Come this or come that,” says the deep woice, thremblin’ with excitement, “I’ll have one look at ye.” No sooner said than done; for with that sayin’ the coachman thwisted, an’ picking up an extra’onary big head from the sate beside him, hilt it up in his two hands an’ faced it to the road. ’Twas the face of a goint. The lad marked that its wiry red whuskers grew close undher its eyes, an’ the flaming hair of the head curled an’ rowled down to where the chowlders should have been. An’ he saw, too, that the nose was wide an’ that the eyes were little. An uglier face you couldn’t wish to obsarve.
But as he looked, the boy saw the great lips tighten an’ grow wide; the eyelids half closed, an’ the head gave a hoarse sob; the tears thrickled down its nose. The head was cryin’.
First Darby grew oncomfortable, then he felt insulted to be cried at that way be a total sthranger. An’ as the tears rowled faster an’ faster, an’ the sobs came louder an’ louder, an’ the ugly eyes kep’ leering at him affectionate, he grew hot with indignaytion.
Seeing which, the head spoke up, snivelling:
“Plaze don’t get pugnaycious nor yet disputaytious,” it begged, betwixt sobs. “ ’Tisn’t yer face that hurts me an’ makes
