Half-Hours with Great Story-Tellers

"I'M THE MAN OF ALL MIN THAT KILLED THREESCORE AND TIN AT A BLOW."

"When the people sees that," says the Waiver to himself, "the sorra one will dar' for to come near me."

And with that he found the wit to scour out the small iron pot for him for says he, "it will make an illigant helmet—and when it was done, he put it on his head, and the wife said, "Oh murther, Thady jewel, is it puttin' a great heavy iron pot on your head you are, by way iv a hat?"

"Sartainly," says he, "for a knight arriant should always have a weight on his brain."

"But, Thady dear," said the wife, "there's a hole in it, and it can't keep out the weather."

"It will be the cooler," says he, puttin' it on him,—"besides, if I don't like it, it is aisy to stop it up with a wisht o' straw, or the like o' that."

"The three legs of it looks mighty quare, stickin up," says she.

"Every helmet has a spike stickin' out o' the top of it," says the

Waiver, "and if mine has three, it is only the grandther it is"

"Well," says the wife, getting bitther at last, "all I can say is, it isn't the first sheep's head was dhressed in it."

"Your sarvent ma'am," says he; and off he set.

Well, he was in want of a horse, and so he wint to a field hard by, where the miller's horse was grazin' that used to carry the ground corn around the counthry.

"This is the idintical horse for me," says the Waiver, "he is used to carryin' flour and male; and what am I but the flower o' shovelry in a coat of mail; so that the horse won't be put out of his way in the laste."

But as he was ridin' him out of the field, who should see him but the miller.

"Is it stalin' my horse, you are, honest man?" says the miller.

"No," says the Waiver, "I am only goin, to exercise him," says he, "in the cool o' the evenin', it will be good for his health."

"Thank you kindly," said the miller, "but lave him where he is, and you'll obleege me."

"I can't afford it," says the Waiver, running his horse at the ditch.

"Bad luck to your impidence," says the miller. "you've as much tin about you as a thravelin' tink but youv'e more brass. Come back here, you vagabone," says he.

But he was late;—away galloped the Waiver, and tuk the road to Dublin, for he thought the best thing he could do was to go to the King o' Dublin (for Dublin was a grate place then, and had a king iv its own), and he thought maybe the King o' Dublin would give him work. Well, he was four days goin' to Dublin, for the baste was not the best, and the roads worse, not all as one was now; but there was no turnpike then, glory be to God! whin he got to Dublin he wint shtraight to the palace, and whin he got into the coort yard, he let his horse go and graze about the place, for the grass was growin' out betune the stones: everythin' was flourishin' thin in Dublin, you see.

Well, the king was lookin' out in his dhrawin' room, for divarshun, whin the Waiver came in, but the Waiver purtended not to see him, and he wint over to a stone sait under the windy—for you see there was stone sates all round about the place for the accommodation of the people, for the king was a dacent obleegin' man,—well, as I said, the Waiver wint over and lay down on one of the sates, just undher the king's windy, and purtended to go asleep: but he tuk care to turn out the front of his shield that had the letthers an it—well, my dear, with that the king calls out to wan of the lords of his coort that was shtandin' behind him, howldin' up the skirt iv his coat, accordin' to raison, and says he:

"Look here," says he, "what do you think of a vagabone like that, comin' under my very to nose go to sleep? It's thrue I'm a very good king," says he, "and I 'commodate the people by having sates for them to sit down and enjoy the raycreation and contimplation of seein' me here lookin' out o' my drawing room windy for divarsion; but that is no raison they're to make a hotel iv the place, and come and sleep here. Who is it at all?" says the king.

"Not a one o' me knows, plaze your majesty."

"I think he must be a furriner," says the king, "bekase his dress is outlandish."

"And doesn't know manners, more betoken," says the lord.

"I'll go and circumspect him myself," says the king,—"folly me," says he to the lord, waivin' his hand at the same time in the most dignacious mannar.

Down he wint accordainly, followed by the lord, and whin he wint over to where the Waiver was lyin', sure the first thing he seen was his shield with the big letthers an it, and with that says he to the lord "by dad," says he, "this is the very man I want."

"For what, plaze your majesty?" says the lord.

"To kill that vagabone dhraggin'," says the king.

"Sure, do you think he could kill him," says the lord, "whin all the stoutest lords in the land wasn't aquil to it, but never kem back, and was ate up alive by the cruel desaiver."

"Sure, don't you see there," says the king pointin' at the shield, "that he killed threescore and tin at one blow, and the man that done that I think is a match for anything."

So with that he went over to the Waiver and shook him by the shoulder for to wake him, and the Waiver rubbed his eyes as if just wakened, and the king says to him: "God save you," says he.

"God save you kindly," says the Waiver, purtendin' he was quite unknowst who he was spakin to.

"Do you know who I am?" says the king, "that you make so free, good man."

"No indade," says the waiver, "you have the advantage of me."

"To be sure I have," says the king, mighty high; "sure, aint I the king o' Dublin," says he.

The Waiver dropped down on his two knees forninst the king, and says he, "I beg God's pardon and yours for the liberty I tuk, plaze your holiness I hope you'll excuse it."

"No offence," says the king, "get up, good man. And what brings you here," says he.

"I'm in want of work, plaze your rivirence," says the Waiver.

"Well, suppose I give you work?" says the king.

"I'll be proud to sarve you, my lord," says the Waiver.

"Very well," says the king, "you killed threescore and tin at one blow,

I undershtan'," says the king.

"Yis," says the Waiver, "that was the last thrifle o' work I done, and I'm afeard my hand'll go out o' practice if I don't get some job to do, at wanst."

"You shall have a job to do immidiately," says the king. "It's not threescore and tin or any fine thing like that, it is only a blaguard dhraggin, that is disturbin' the counthry and ruinating my tinanthry wid aitin' their powlthry, and I'm lost for want of eggs," says the king.

"Troth, thin plaze your worship," says the waiver, "you look as yellow as if you'd swallowed twelve yolks this minit."

"Well, I want this dhraggin to be killed," says the king. "It will be no throuble in life to you; and I am only sorry that it isn't betther worth your while, for he isn't worth fearin' at all; only I must tell you that he lives in the county Galway, in the middle of a bog, and he has an advantage in that."

"Oh, I don't value it in the laste," says the Waiver, "for the last three-score and tin I killed was in a soft place."

"When will you undhertake the job, then?" says the king.

"Let me at him at wanst," says the Waiver.