Great Irish Short Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

to collect his fellow-haymakers, and persuaded them to assist him this night in rebuilding what they had pulled down.
    They went to this work when everybody except themselves, as they thought, was asleep in Hereford. They had just completed the stack, and were all going away except Paddy, who was seated at the very top finishing the pile, when they heard a loud voice cry out, “Here they are! Watch! watch!”
    Immediately all the haymakers who could ran off as fast as possible. It was the watch who had been sitting up at the cathedral who gave the alarm. Paddy was taken from the top of the rick, and lodged in the watch-house till morning. “Since I’m to be rewarded this way for doing a good action, sorrow take me,” said he, “if they catch me doing another the longest day I ever live.”
    Happy they who have in their neighbourhood such a magistrate as Mr. Marshal. He was a man who, to an exact knowledge of the duties of his office, joined the power of discovering truth from the midst of contradictory evidence; and the happy art of soothing, or laughing, the angry passions into good humour. It was a common saying in Hereford—that no one ever came out of Justice Marshal’s house as angry as he went into it.
    Mr. Marshal had scarcely breakfasted, when he was informed that Mr. Hill, the verger, wanted to speak to him on business of the utmost importance. Mr. Hill, the verger, was ushered in; and with gloomy solemnity, took a seat opposite to Mr. Marshal.
    “Sad doings in Hereford, Mr. Mayor—sad doings, sir.”
    “Sad doings? Why, I was told we had merry doings in Hereford;—a ball the night before last, as I heard.”
    “So much the worse, Mr. Marshal; so much the worse: as those think with reason that see as far into things as I do.”
    “So much the better, Mr. Hill,” said Mr. Marshal, laughing; “so much the better: as those think with reason that see no farther into things than I do.”
    “But, sir,” said the verger, still more solemnly, “this is no laughing matter, nor time for laughing, begging your pardon, Mr. Mayor. Why, sir, the night of that diabolical ball, our Hereford cathedral, sir, would have been blown up,—blown up from the foundation,—if it had not been for me, sir!”
    “Indeed, Mr. Verger! And pray how, and by whom, was the cathedral to be blown up; and what was there diabolical in this ball?”
    Here Mr. Hill let Mr. Marshal into the whole history of his early dislike to O’Neill, and his shrewd suspicions of him the first moment he saw him in Hereford. He related in the most prolix manner all that the reader knows already, and concluded by saying that, as he was now certain of his facts, he was come to swear examinations against this villainous Irishman, who, he hoped, would be speedily brought to justice, as he deserved.
    “To justice he shall be brought, as he deserves,” said Mr. Marshal; “but before I write, and before you swear, will you have the goodness to inform me how you have made yourself as certain as you evidently are, of what you call your facts?”
    “Sir, that is a secret,” replied our wise man, “which I shall trust to you alone;” and he whispered into Mr. Marshal’s ear that his information came from Bampfylde the Second, king of the gipsies.
    Mr. Marshal instantly burst into laughter; then composing himself, said, “My good sir, I am really glad that you have proceeded no farther in this business; and that no one in Hereford, besides myself, knows that you were on the point of swearing examinations against a man on the evidence of Bampfylde the Second, king of the gipsies. My dear sir, it would be a standing joke against you to the end of your days. A grave man, like Mr. Hill; and a verger too! Why, you would be the laughingstock of Hereford!”
    Now Mr. Marshal well knew the character of the man to whom he was talking, who, above all things on earth, dreaded to be laughed at. Mr. Hill coloured all over his face, and pushing back his wig by way of