“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, 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?”
“Aye,” 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 leave. And that whoever begins to sledge with it may never stop sledging till it’s my pleasure to release him.
“Secondly—I have an armchair, 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 serve 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 a prettier wish ever was made than I’ll make, if you’ll give me another chance.”
“Get out, you reprobate,” said the old fellow, still in a passion. “Your day of grace is past. Little you know who was speaking to you all this time. I’m Saint 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 byword 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 coal scuttle 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 pretense of business, and when he got them under his roof, he offered them the armchair 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 neither 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 this, his character was fifty times worse than before, for it was the general belief that he had dealings with the Devil. Nothing now could exceed his misery, distress, and ill-temper. The wife and he and their children all fought among one another like devils. Everybody hated them, cursed them, and avoided them. The people thought they were acquainted with more than Christian people ought to know, for the family, they said, was very like one that the Devil drove. All 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 Devil, 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 convenient 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 any thing fresh below?”
“I can’t exactly say, Bill. I spend little of my time down now. The Whigs 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 a while ago? If you want to come to the brunt, here I’m for you.”
“Nick,” said Bill, “you’re complete. 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:
“Brian O’Lynn had no breeches to wear,
So he got a sheep’s skin for to make him a pair;
With the fleshy side out, and the woolly side in,
They’ll be pleasant and cool, says Brian O’Lynn.
A cool pair wo
uld serve you, Nick.”
“You’re mighty waggish today, Mr. Duffy.”
“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 are as naked a tatterdemallion as I ever laid my eyes on. In full dress for a party of scarecrows, 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 the 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 aboveboard, my friend,” says the other. “I’m a man of few words, blunt and honest. If you have any thing 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 scarecrow as ever stood upon two legs?”
“I play second fiddle to you there again,” says Bill.
“There you stand with the blackguard’s coat of arms quartered under your eye, and—”
“Don’t make little of blackguards,” says Bill, “nor speak 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 tomorrow. 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 nagur.”
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, the Devil’s 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 mean, 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 sponger 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 Devil 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, blacklegs 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 taproom 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 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, and more if he got it.
Bill, however, who was a hardened sinner, never fretted himself down an ounce of flesh by what was said to him, or of him. Not he. He cursed, and fought, and swore, and schemed away as usual, taking in everyone he could; and surely none could match him at villainy of all sorts and sizes.
At last the seven years became expired, and Bill was one morning sitting in his forge, sober and hungry, the wife cursing him, and the children squalling as before. He was thinking how he might defraud some honest neighbors out of a breakfast to stop their mouths and his own too, when who walks into him but Old Nick, to demand his bargain.
“Morrow, Bill,” says he with a sneer.
“The Devil welcome you!” says Bill. “But you have a fresh memory.”
“A bargain’s a bargain between two honest men, any day,” says Satan. “When I speak of honest men, I mean yourself and me, Bill.” And he put his tongue in his cheek to make game of the unfortunate rogue he came for.
“Nick, my worthy fellow,” said Bill, “have bowels. You wouldn’t do a shabby thing. You wouldn’t disgrace your own character by putting more weight upon a falling man. You know what it is to get a come-down yourself, my worthy. So just keep your toe in your pump, and walk off with yourself somewhere else. A cool walk will serve you better than my company, Nicholas.”
“Bill, it’s no use in shirking,” said his friend. “Your swindling tricks may enable you to cheat others, but you won’t ch
eat me, I guess. You want nothing to make you perfect in your way but to travel. And travel you shall under my guidance, Billy. No, no—I’m not to be swindled, my good fellow. I have rather a—a—better opinion of myself, Mr. D., than to think that you could outwit one Nicholas Clutie, Esquire—ehem!”
“You may sneer, you sinner,” replied Bill, “but I tell you for your comfort, that I have outwitted men who could buy and sell you to your face. Despair, you villain, when I tell you that no attorney could stand before me.”
Satan’s countenance got blank when he heard this. He wriggled and fidgeted about, and appeared to be not quite comfortable.
“In that case, then,” says he, “the sooner I deceive you the better, so turn out for the Low Countries.”
“Is it come to that in earnest?” said Bill, “and are you going to act the rascal at the long run?”
“Pon honor, Bill.”
“Have patience, then, you sinner, till I finish this horseshoe—it’s the last of a set I’m finishing for one of your friend the attorney’s horses. And here, Nick, I hate idleness, you know it’s the mother of mischief, take this sledge hammer, and give a dozen strokes or so, till I get it out of hands, and then, here’s with you, since it must be so.”
He then gave the bellows a puff that blew half a peck of dust in Clubfoot’s face, whipped out the red-hot iron, and set Satan sledging away for the bare life.
“Faith,” says Bill to him, when the shoe was finished, “it’s a thousand pities ever the sledge should be out of your hand; the great Parra Gow was a child to you at sledging, you’re such an able tyke. Now just exercise yourself till I bid the wife and childer goodbye, and then I’m off.”
Out went Bill, of course without the slightest notion of coming back; no more than Nick had that he could not give up the sledging, and indeed neither could he, but he was forced to work away as if he was sledging for a wager. This was just what Bill wanted. He was now compelled to sledge away until it was Bill’s pleasure to release him. And so we leave him very industriously employed, while we look after the worthy who outwitted him.
Irish Folk Tales Page 37
