The Crock of Gold

that I noticed one day he used to be winking at the dog, and when he’d stop winking the dog would stop counting. We made him turn his back after that, and got the dog to count sixpence, but he barked for more than five shillings, he did so, and he would have counted up to a pound, maybe, only that his master turned round and hit him a kick. Every person that ever paid him a bet said they wanted their money back, but the man went away to America in the night, and I expect he’s doing well there for he took the dog with him. It was a wirehaired terrier bitch, and it was the devil for having pups.”

“It is astonishing,” said the Philosopher, “on what slender compulsion people will go to America⁠—”

“Keep it up, Shawn,” said the sergeant, “you are doing me a favour.”

“I will so,” said Shawn. “I had a cat one time and it used to have kittens every two months.”

The Philosopher’s voice arose:

“If there was any periodicity about these migrations one could understand them. Birds, for example, migrate from their homes in the late autumn and seek abroad the sustenance and warmth which the winter would withhold if they remained in their native lands. The salmon also, a dignified fish with a pink skin, emigrates from the Atlantic Ocean, and betakes himself inland to the streams and lakes, where he recuperates for a season, and is often surprised by net, angle, or spear⁠—”

“Cut in now, Shawn,” said the sergeant anxiously.

Shawn began to gabble with amazing speed and in a mighty voice:

“Cats sometimes eat their kittens, and sometimes they don’t. A cat that eats its kittens is a heartless brute. I knew a cat used to eat its kittens⁠—it had four legs and a long tail, and it used to get the head-staggers every time it had eaten its kittens. I killed it myself one day with a hammer for I couldn’t stand the smell it made, so I couldn’t⁠—”

“Shawn,” said the sergeant, “can’t you talk about something else besides cats and dogs?”

“Sure, I don’t know what to talk about,” said Shawn. “I’m sweating this minute trying to please you, so I am. If you’ll tell me what to talk about I’ll do my endeavours.”

“You’re a fool,” said the sergeant sorrowfully; “you’ll never make a constable. I’m thinking that I would sooner listen to the man himself than to you. Have you got a good hold of him now?”

“I have so,” said Shawn.

“Well, step out and maybe we’ll reach the barracks this night, unless this is a road that there isn’t any end to at all. What was that? Did you hear a noise?”

“I didn’t hear a thing,” said Shawn.

“I thought,” said another man, “that I heard something moving in the hedge at the side of the road.”

“That’s what I heard,” said the sergeant. “Maybe it was a weasel. I wish to the devil that we were out of this place where you can’t see as much as your own nose. Now did you hear it, Shawn?”

“I did so,” said Shawn; “there’s someone in the hedge, for a weasel would make a different kind of a noise if it made any at all.”

“Keep together, men,” said the sergeant, “and march on; if there’s anybody about they’ve no business with us.”

He had scarcely spoken when there came a sudden pattering of feet, and immediately the four men were surrounded and were being struck at on every side with sticks and hands and feet.

“Draw your batons,” the sergeant roared; “keep a good grip of that man, Shawn.”

“I will so,” said Shawn.

“Stand round him, you other men, and hit anything that comes near you.”

There was no sound of voices from the assailants, only a rapid scuffle of feet, the whistle of sticks as they swung through the air or slapped smartly against a body or clashed upon each other, and the quick breathing of many people; but from the four policemen there came noise and to spare as they struck wildly on every side, cursing the darkness and their opposers with fierce enthusiasm.

“Let out,” cried Shawn suddenly. “Let out or I’ll smash your nut for you. There’s someone pulling at the prisoner, and I’ve dropped my baton.”

The truncheons of the policemen had been so ferociously exercised that their antagonists departed as swiftly and as mysteriously as they came. It was just two minutes of frantic, aimless conflict, and then the silent night was round them again, without any sound but the slow creaking of branches, the swish of leaves as they swung and poised, and the quiet croon of the wind along the road.

“Come on, men,” said the sergeant, “we’d better be getting out of this place as quick as we can. Are any of ye hurted?”

“I’ve got one of the enemy,” said Shawn, panting.

“You’ve got what?” said the sergeant.

“I’ve got one of them, and he is wriggling like an eel on a pan.”

“Hold him tight,” said the sergeant excitedly.

“I will so,” said Shawn. “It’s a little one by the feel of it. If one of ye would hold the prisoner, I’d get a better grip on this one. Aren’t they dangerous villains now?”

Another man took hold of the Philosopher’s arm, and Shawn got both hands on his captive.

“Keep quiet, I’m telling you,” said he, “or I’ll throttle you, I will so. Faith, it seems like a little boy by the feel of it!”

“A little boy!” said the sergeant.

“Yes, he doesn’t reach up to my waist.”

“It must be the young brat from the cottage that set the dogs on us, the one that loves beasts. Now then, boy, what do you mean by this kind of thing? You’ll find yourself in gaol for this, my young buck-o. Who was with you, eh? Tell me that now?” and the sergeant bent forward.

“Hold up your head, sonny, and talk to the sergeant,” said Shawn. “Oh!” he roared, and suddenly he made a little rush forward. “I’ve got him,” he