Irish Fairy and Folk Tales (38 page)

“You may kiss the book on that, my old worthy,” replied Bill; “but come, what I can do for you I will; plant yourself up
here beside the fire, and I’ll give it a blast or two of my bellows that will warm the old blood in your body. It’s a cold, miserable, snowy day, and a good heat will be of service.”

“Thank you kindly,” said the old man; “I
am
cold, and a warming at your fire will do me good, sure enough. Oh, but it
is
a bitter, bitter day; God bless it!”

He then sat down, and Bill blew a rousing blast that soon made the stranger edge back from the heat. In a short time he felt quite comfortable, and when the numbness was taken out of his joints, he buttoned himself up and prepared to depart.

“Now,” says he to Bill, “you hadn’t the food to give me, but
what you could you did.
Ask any three wishes you choose, and be they what they may, take my word for it, they shall be granted.”

Now, the truth is, that Bill, though he believed himself a great man in point of ’cuteness, wanted, after all, a full quarter of being square; for there is always a great difference between a wise man and a knave. Bill was so much of a rogue that he could not, for the blood of him, ask an honest wish, but stood scratching his head in a puzzle.

“Three wishes!” said he. “Why, let me see—did you say
three?
”

“Ay,” replied the stranger, “three wishes—that was what I said.”

“Well,” said Bill, “here goes—aha!—let me alone, my old worthy!—faith I’ll overreach the parish, if what you say is true. I’ll cheat them in dozens, rich and poor, old and young: let me alone, man—I have it here;” and he tapped his forehead with great glee. “Faith, you’re the sort to meet of a frosty morning, when a man wants his breakfast; and I’m sorry that I have neither money nor credit to get a bottle of whiskey, that we might take our
morning
together.”

“Well, but let us hear the wishes,” said the old man; “my time is short, and I cannot stay much longer.”

“Do you see this sledge-hammer?” said Bill; “I wish, in the first place, that whoever takes it up in their hands may never be able to lay it down till I give them lave; and that whoever begins to sledge with it may never stop sledging till it’s my pleasure to release him.

“Secondly—I have an arm-chair, and I wish that whoever sits down in it may never rise out of it till they have my consent.

“And, thirdly—that whatever money I put into my purse, nobody may have power to take it out of it but myself!”

“You devil’s rip!” says the old man in a passion, shaking his staff across Bill’s nose, “why did you not ask something that would sarve you both here and hereafter? Sure it’s as common as the market-cross, that there’s not a vagabone in his Majesty’s dominions stands more in need of both.”

“Oh! by the elevens,” said Bill, “I forgot that altogether! Maybe you’d be civil enough to let me change one of them? The sorra purtier wish ever was made than I’ll make, if only you’ll give me another chance at it.”

“Get out, you reprobate,” said the old fellow, still in a passion. “Your day of grace is past. Little you knew who was speaking to you all this time. I’m St. Moroky, you blackguard, and I gave you an opportunity of doing something for yourself and your family; but you neglected it, and now your fate is cast, you dirty, bog-trotting profligate. Sure, it’s well known what you are! Aren’t you a by-word in everybody’s mouth, you and your scold of a wife? By this and by that, if ever you happen to come across me again, I’ll send you to where you won’t freeze, you villain!”

He then gave Bill a rap of his cudgel over the head, and laid him at his length beside the bellows, kicked a broken coalscuttle out of his way, and left the forge in a fury.

When Billy recovered himself from the effects of the blow, and began to think on what had happened, he could have quartered himself with vexation for not asking great wealth as one of the wishes at least; but now the die was cast on him, and he could only make the most of the three he pitched upon.

He now bethought him how he might turn them to the best account, and here his cunning came to his aid. He began by sending for his wealthiest neighbors on pretence of business; and when he got them under his roof, he offered them the arm-chair to sit down in. He now had them safe, nor could all the art of man relieve them except worthy Bill was willing. Bill’s plan was to make the best bargain he could before he released his prisoners; and let him alone for knowing how to make their purses bleed. There wasn’t a wealthy man in the country he did not fleece. The parson of the parish bled heavily; so did the lawyer; and a rich attorney, who had retired from practice, swore that the Court of Chancery itself was paradise compared to Bill’s chair.

This was all very good for a time. The fame of his chair, however, soon spread; so did that of his sledge. In a short time nether man, woman, nor child would darken his door; all avoided him and his fixtures as they would a spring-gun or man-trap. Bill, so long as he fleeced his neighbors, never wrought a hand’s turn; so that when his money was out, he found himself as badly off as ever. In addition to all this, his character was fifty times worse than before; for it was the general belief that he had dealings with the old boy. Nothing now could exceed his misery, distress, and ill-temper. The wife and he and their children all fought among one another. Everybody hated them, cursed them, and avoided them. The people thought they were acquainted with more than Christian people ought to know. This, of course, came to Bill’s ears, and it vexed him very much.

One day he was walking about the fields, thinking of how he could raise the wind once more; the day was dark, and he found himself, before he stopped, in the bottom of a lonely glen covered by great bushes that grew on each side. “Well,” thought he, when every other means of raising money failed him, “it’s reported that I’m in league with the old boy, and as it’s a folly to have the name of the connection without the profit, I’m ready to make a bargain with him any day;—so,” said he, raising his voice, “Nick, you sinner, if you be convanient and willing, why stand out here; show your best leg—here’s your man.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when a dark, sober-looking old gentleman, not unlike a lawyer, walked up to him. Bill looked at the foot and saw the hoof.—“Morrow, Nick,” says Bill.

“Morrow, Bill,” says Nick. “Well, Bill, what’s the news?”

“Devil a much myself hears of late,” says Bill; “is there anything
fresh
below?”

“I can’t exactly say, Bill; I spend little of my time down now; the Tories are in office, and my hands are consequently too full of business here to pay much attention to anything else.”

“A fine place this, sir,” says Bill, “to take a constitutional walk in; when I want an appetite I often come this way myself—hem!
High
feeding is very bad without exercise.”

“High feeding! Come, come, Bill, you know you didn’t taste a morsel these four-and-twenty hours.”

“You know that’s a bounce, Nick. I eat a breakfast this morning that would put a stone of flesh on you, if you only smelt at it.”

“No matter; this is not to the purpose. What’s that you were muttering to yourself awhile ago? If you want to come to the brunt, here I’m for you.”

“Nick,” said Bill, “you’re complate; you want nothing barring a pair of Brian O’Lynn’s breeches.”

Bill, in fact, was bent on making his companion open the bargain, because he had often heard that, in that case, with proper care on his own part, he might defeat him in the long run. The other, however, was his match.

“What was the nature of Brian’s garment?” inquired Nick. “Why, you know the song,” said Bill:

“A
cool
pare would sarve you, Nick.”

“You’re mighty waggish to-day, Misther Dawson.”

“And good right I have,” said Bill; “I’m a man snug and well to do in the world; have lots of money, plenty of good eating and drinking, and what more need a man wish for?”

“True,” said the other; “in the meantime it’s rather odd that so respectable a man should not have six inches of unbroken cloth in his apparel. You’re as naked a tatterdemalion as I ever laid my eyes on; in full dress for a party of scare-crows, William.”

“That’s my own fancy, Nick; I don’t work at my trade like a gentleman. This is my forge dress, you know.”

“Well, but what did you summon me here for?” said the other; “you may as well speak out, I tell you; for, my good friend, unless
you
do,
I
shan’t. Smell that.”

“I smell more than that,” said Bill; “and by the way, I’ll thank you to give me the windy side of you—curse all sulphur, I say. There, that’s what I call an improvement in my condition. But as you
are
so stiff,” says Bill, “why, the short and long of it is—that—hem—you see I’m—tut—sure you know I have a thriving trade of my own, and that if I like I needn’t
be at a loss; but in the meantime I’m rather in a kind of a so—so—don’t you
take
?”

And Bill winked knowingly, hoping to trick him into the first proposal.

“You must speak above-board, my friend,” says the other. “I’m a man of few words, blunt and honest. If you have anything to say, be plain. Don’t think I can be losing my time with such a pitiful rascal as you are.”

“Well,” says Bill, “I want money, then, and am ready to come into terms. What have you to say to that, Nick?”

“Let me see—let me look at you,” says his companion, turning him about. “Now, Bill, in the first place, are you not as finished a scare-crow as ever stood upon two legs?”

“I play second fiddle to you there again,” says Bill.

“There you stand, with the blackguards’ coat of arms quartered under your eye, and—”

“Don’t make little of
black
guards,” said Bill, “nor spake disparagingly of
your own
crest.”

“Why, what would you bring, you brazen rascal, if you were fairly put up at auction?”

“Faith, I’d bring more bidders than you would,” said Bill, “if you were to go off at auction to-morrow. I tell you they should bid
downwards
to come to your value, Nicholas. We have no coin
small
enough to purchase you.”

“Well, no matter,” said Nick. “If you are willing to be mine at the expiration of seven years, I will give you more money than ever the rascally breed of you was worth.”

“Done!” said Bill; “but no disparagement to my family, in the meantime; so down with the hard cash, and don’t be a
neger.
”

The money was accordingly paid down! but as nobody was present, except the giver and receiver, the amount of what Bill got was never known.

“Won’t you give me a luck-penny?” said the old gentleman.

“Tut,” said Billy, “so prosperous an old fellow as you cannot want it; however, bad luck to you, with all my heart! and it’s rubbing grease to a fat pig to say so. Be off now, or I’ll commit suicide on you. Your absence is a cordial to most people, you infernal old profligate. You have injured my morals even for the short time you have been with me; for I don’t find myself so virtuous as I was.”

“Is that your gratitude, Billy?”

“Is it gratitude
you
speak of, man? I wonder you don’t blush when you name it. However, when you come again, if you bring a third eye in your head you will see what I mane, Nicholas, ahagur.”

The old gentleman, as Bill spoke, hopped across the ditch, on his way to
Downing
Street, where of late ’tis thought he possesses much influence.

Bill now began by degrees to show off; but still wrought a little at his trade to blindfold the neighbors. In a very short time, however, he became a great man. So long indeed as he was a
poor
rascal, no decent person would speak to him; even the proud serving-men at the “Big House” would turn up their noses at him. And he well deserved to be made little of by others, because he was mean enough to make little of himself. But when it was seen and known that he had oceans of money, it was wonderful to think, although he was
now
a greater blackguard than ever, how those who despised him before began to come round him and court his company. Bill, however, had neither sense nor spirit to make those sunshiny friends know their distance; not he—instead of that he was proud to be seen in decent company, and so long as the money lasted, it was, “hail fellow well met,” between himself and every fair-faced
spunger
who had a horse under him, a decent coat to his back, and a good appetite to eat his dinners. With
riches and all, Bill was the same man still; but, somehow or other, there is a great difference between a rich profligate and a poor one, and Bill found it so to his cost in
both
cases.

Before half the seven years was passed, Bill had his carriage, and his equipages; was hand and glove with my Lord This, and my Lord That; kept hounds and hunters; was the first sportsman at the Curragh; patronized every boxing ruffian he could pick up; and betted night and day on cards, dice, and horses. Bill, in short,
should
be a blood, and except he did all this, he could not presume to mingle with the fashionable bloods of his time.

It’s an old proverb, however, that “what is got over the devil’s back is sure to go off under it;” and in Bill’s case this proved true. In short, the old boy himself could not supply him with money so fast as he made it fly; it was “come easy, go easy,” with Bill, and so sign was on it, before he came within two years of his time he found his purse empty.

And now came the value of his summer friends to be known. When it was discovered that the cash was no longer flush with him—that stud, and carriage, and hounds were going to the hammer—whish! off they went, friends, relations, pot-companions, dinner-eaters, black-legs, and all, like a flock of crows that had smelt gunpowder. Down Bill soon went, week after week, and day after day, until at last he was obliged to put on the leather apron, and take to the hammer again; and not only that, for as no experience could make him wise, he once more began his tap-room brawls, his quarrels with Judy, and took to his “high feeding” at the dry potatoes and salt. Now, too, came the cutting tongues of all who knew him, like razors upon him. Those that he scorned because they were poor and himself rich, now paid him back his own with interest; and those that he had measured himself with, because they were rich, and who only countenanced him in consequence
of his wealth, gave him the hardest word in their cheeks. The devil mend him! He deserved it all, and more if he had got it.