"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 some one 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 some one 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 gasped; "he nearly got away. It isn't a boy at all, sergeant; there's whiskers on it!"
"What do you say?" said the sergeant.
"I put my hand under its chin and there's whiskers on it. I nearly let him out with the surprise, I did so."
"Try again," said the sergeant in a low voice; "you are making a mistake."
"I don't like touching them," said Shawn. "It's a soft whisker like a billy-goat's. Maybe you'd try yourself, sergeant, for I tell you I'm frightened of it."
"Hold him over here," said the sergeant, "and keep a good grip of him."
"I'll do that," said Shawn, and he hauled some reluctant object towards his superior.
The sergeant put out his hand and touched a head.
"It's only a boy's size, to be sure," said he, then he slid his hand down the face and withdrew it quickly.
"There are whiskers on it," said he soberly. "What the devil can it be? I never met whiskers so near the ground before. Maybe they are false ones, and it's just the boy yonder trying to disguise himself." He put out his hand again with an effort, felt his way to the chin, and tugged.
Instantly there came a yell, so loud, so sudden, that every man of them jumped in a panic.
"They are real whiskers," said the sergeant with a sigh. "I wish I knew what it is. His voice is big enough for two men, and that's a fact. Have you got another match on you?"
"I have two more in my waistcoat pocket," said one of the men.
"Give me one of them," said the sergeant; "I'll strike it myself."
He groped about until he found the hand with a match.
"Be sure and hold him tight, Shawn, the way we can have a good look at him, for this is like to be a queer miracle of a thing."
"I'm holding him by the two arms," said Shawn, "he can't stir anything but his head, and I've got my chest on that."
The sergeant struck the match, shading it for a moment with his hand, then he turned it on their new prisoner.
They saw a little man dressed in tight green clothes; he had a broad, pale face with staring eyes, and there was a thin fringe of grey whisker under his chin—then the match went out.
"It's a Leprecaun," said the sergeant.
The men were silent for a full couple of minutes—at last Shawn spoke.
"Do you tell me so?" said he in a musing voice; "that's a queer miracle altogether."
"I do," said the sergeant. "Doesn't it stand to reason that it can't be anything else? You saw it yourself."
Shawn plumped down on his knees before his captive.
"Tell me where the money is?" he hissed. "Tell me where the money is or I'll twist your neck off."
The other men also gathered eagerly around, shouting threats and commands at the Leprecaun.
"Hold your whist," said Shawn fiercely to them. "He can't answer the lot of you, can he?" and he turned again to the Leprecaun and shook him until his teeth chattered.
"If you don't tell me where the money is at once I'll kill you, I will so."
"I haven't got any money at all, sir," said the Leprecaun.
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p; "None of your lies," roared Shawn. "Tell the truth now or it'll be worse for you."
"I haven't got any money," said the Leprecaun, "for Meehawl MacMurrachu of the Hill stole our crock a while back, and he buried it under a thorn bush. I can bring you to the place if you don't believe me."
"Very good," said Shawn. "Come on with me now, and I'll clout you if you as much as wriggle; do you mind me?"
"What would I wriggle for?" said the Leprecaun: "sure I like being with you."
Hereupon the sergeant roared at the top of his voice.
"Attention," said he, and the men leaped to position like automata.
"What is it you are going to do with your prisoner, Shawn?" said he sarcastically. "Don't you think we had enough tramping of these roads for one night, now? Bring up that Leprecaun to the barracks or it'll be the worse for you—do you hear me talking to you?"
"But the gold, sergeant," said Shawn sulkily.
"If there's any gold it'll be treasure trove, and belong to the Crown. What kind of a constable are you at all, Shawn? Mind what you are about now, my man, and no back answers. Step along there. Bring that murderer up at once, whichever of you has him."
There came a gasp from the darkness.
"Oh, Oh, Oh!" said a voice of horror.
"What's wrong with you?" said the sergeant: "are you hurted?"
"The prisoner!" he gasped, "he, he's got away!"
"Got away?" and the sergeant's voice was a blare of fury.
"While we were looking at the Leprecaun," said the voice of woe, "I must have forgotten about the other one—I, I haven't got him—"
"You gawm!" gritted the sergeant.
"Is it my prisoner that's gone?" said Shawn in a deep voice. He leaped forward with a curse and smote his negligent comrade so terrible a blow in the face, that the man went flying backwards, and the thud of his head on the road could have been heard anywhere.
"Get up," said Shawn, "get up till give you another one."
"That will do," said the sergeant, "we'll go home. We're the laughing stock of the world. I'll pay you out for this some time, every damn man of ye. Bring that Leprecaun along with you, and quick march."
"Oh!" said Shawn in a strangled tone.
"What is it now?" said the sergeant testily.
"Nothing," replied Shawn.
"What did you say 'Oh!' for then, you blockhead?"
"It's the Leprecaun, sergeant," said Shawn in a whisper—"he's got away—when I was hitting the man there I forgot all about the Leprecaun: he must have run into the hedge. Oh, sergeant, dear, don't say anything to me now—!"
"Quick march," said the sergeant, and the four men moved on through the darkness in a silence, which was only skin deep.
CHAPTER XV
By reason of the many years which he had spent in the gloomy pine wood, the Philosopher could see a little in the darkness, and when he found there was no longer any hold on his coat he continued his journey quietly, marching along with his head sunken on his breast in a deep abstraction. He was meditating on the word "Me," and endeavouring to pursue it through all its changes and adventures. The fact of "meness" was one which startled him. He was amazed at his own being. He knew that the hand which he held up and pinched with another hand was not him and the endeavour to find out what was him was one which had frequently exercised his leisure. He had not gone far when there came a tug at his sleeve and looking down he found one of the Leprecauns of the Gort trotting by his side.
"Noble Sir," said the Leprecaun, "you are terrible hard to get into conversation with. I have been talking to you for the last long time and you won't listen."
"I am listening now," replied the Philosopher.
"You are, indeed," said the Leprecaun heartily. "My brothers are on the other side of the road over there beyond the hedge, and they want to talk to you: will you come with me, Noble Sir?"
"Why wouldn't I go with you?" said the Philosopher, and he turned aside with the Leprecaun.
They pushed softly through a gap in the hedge and into a field beyond.
"Come this way, sir," said his guide, and the Philosopher followed him across the field. In a few minutes they came to a thick bush among the leaves of which the other Leprecauns were hiding. They thronged out to meet the Philosopher's approach and welcomed him with every appearance of joy. With them was the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath who embraced her husband tenderly and gave thanks for his escape.
"The night is young yet," remarked one of the Leprecauns. "Let us sit down here and talk about what should be done."
"I am tired enough," said the Philosopher, "for I have been travelling all yesterday, and all this day and the whole of this night I have been going also, so I would be glad to sit down anywhere."
They sat down under the bush and the Philosopher lit his pipe. In the open space where they were there was just light enough to see the smoke coming from his pipe, but scarcely more. One recognised a figure as a deeper shadow than the surrounding darkness; but as the ground was dry and the air just touched with a pleasant chill, there was no discomfort. After the Philosopher had drawn a few mouthfuls of smoke he passed his pipe on to the next person, and in this way his pipe made the circuit of the party.
"When I put the children to bed," said the Thin Woman, "I came down the road in your wake with a basin of stirabout, for you had no time to take your food, God help you! and I was thinking you must have been hungry."
"That is so," said the Philosopher in a very anxious voice: "but I don't blame you, my dear, for letting the basin fall on the road—"
"While I was going along," she continued, "I met these good people and when I told them what happened they came with me to see if anything could be done. The time they ran out of the hedge to fight the policemen I wanted to go with them, but I was afraid the stirabout would be spilt."
The Philosopher licked his lips.
"I am listening to you, my love," said he.
"So I had to stay where I was with the stirabout under my shawl—"
"Did you slip then, dear wife?"
"I did not, indeed," she replied: "I have the stirabout with me this minute. It's rather cold, I'm thinking, but it is better than nothing at all," and she placed the bowl in his hands.
"I put sugar in it," said she shyly, "and currants, and I have a spoon in my pocket."
"It tastes well," said the Philosopher, and he cleaned the basin so speedily that his wife wept because of his hunger.
By this time the pipe had come round to him again and it was welcomed.
"Now we can talk," said he, and he blew a great cloud of smoke into the darkness and sighed happily.
"We were thinking," said the Thin Woman, "that you won't be able to come back to our house for a while yet: the policemen will be peeping about Coilla Doraca for a long time, to be sure; for isn't it true that if there is a good thing coming to a person, nobody takes much trouble to find him, but if there is a bad thing or a punishment in store for a man, then the whole world will be searched until he be found?"
"It is a true statement," said the Philosopher.
"So what we arranged was this—that you should go to live with these little men in their house under the yew tree of the Gort. There is not a policeman in the world would find you there; or if you went by night to the Brugh of the Boyne, Angus Óg himself would give you a refuge."
One of the Leprecauns here interposed.
"Noble Sir," said he, "there isn't much room in our house, but there's no stint of welcome in it. You would have a good time with us travelling on moonlit nights and seeing strange things, for we often go to visit the Shee of the Hills and they come to see us; there is always something to talk about, and we have dances in the caves and on the tops of the hills. Don't be imagining now that we have a poor life, for there is fun and plenty with us and the Brugh of Angus Mac an Óg is hard to be got at."
"I would like to dance, indeed," returned the Philosopher, "for I do believe that dancing is the first and last duty of man. I
f we cannot be gay what can we be? Life is not any use at all unless we find a laugh here and there—but this time, decent men of the Gort, I cannot go with you, for it is laid on me to give myself up to the police."
"You would not do that," exclaimed the Thin Woman pitifully: "you wouldn't think of doing that now!"
"An innocent man," said he, "cannot be oppressed, for he is fortified by his mind and his heart cheers him. It is only on a guilty person that the rigour of punishment can fall, for he punishes himself. This is what I think, that a man should always obey the law with his body and always disobey it with his mind. I have been arrested, the men of the law had me in their hands, and I will have to go back to them so that they may do whatever they have to do."
The Philosopher resumed his pipe, and although the others reasoned with him for a long time they could not by any means remove him from his purpose. So, when the pale glimmer of dawn had stolen over the sky, they arose and went downwards to the cross roads and so to the Police Station.
Outside the village the Leprecauns bade him farewell and the Thin Woman also took her leave of him, saying she would visit Angus Óg and implore his assistance on behalf of her husband, and then the Leprecauns and the Thin Woman returned again the way they came, and the Philosopher walked on to the barracks.
CHAPTER XVI
When he knocked at the barrack door it was opened by a man with tousled, red hair, who looked as though he had just awakened from sleep.
"What do you want at this hour of the night?" said he.
"I want to give myself up," said the Philosopher.
The Policeman looked at him—
"A man as old as you are," said he, "oughtn't to be a fool. Go home now, I advise you, and don't say a word to any one whether you did it or not. Tell me this now, was it found out, or are you only making a clean breast of it?"
"Sure I must give myself up," said the Philosopher.
"If you must, you must, and that's an end of it. Wipe your feet on the rail there and come in—I'll take your deposition."
"I have no deposition for you," said the Philosopher, "for I didn't do a thing at all."
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