Many an’ many a hundhred year ago there lived at Roche’s Point, just at the enthrance of Cork harbour, a fine sthrappin’ young fellow named Andy Merrigan. He owned as nate a thrawler as you could see from this to the Land’s End, an’ ’twas the grand fisherman he was intirely.

Andy was tall and sthrong, wud long black hair fallin’ over his showldhers, an’ eyes that burned undher his brows like fires of coal. He was very dark in himself for a young man, an’ all the neighbours wor more or less in dhread of him.

Andy never sailed his thrawler in company wud any of the other fishermen in Cork Harbour; an’ ’twas always of a dirty night an’ whin the win’ was blowin’ hard an’ the say was high that he used to cast off from his moorin’s; an’ thin the neighbours wouldn’t see him or hear of him again maybe for weeks an’ weeks. But whenever he did come back it was always wud a boat-load of fish; an’ thin he would stop ashore for a spell an’ spend whips of money in all kinds of divarsion.

Of coorse there wor plenty of back-bithers in Cork Harbour that had the hard word agen Andy; but divil a wan of ’em had the courage ever to say anything crooked forenenst him, for he had a fist as firm an’ as heavy as a half hundredweight, an’ he wasn’t shy of usin’ it on an emergency. There wor some whispers that Andy was a pirate king in saycrit, an’ others said ’twas a wrecker he was an’ that his fires wor often seen on the coast of Clare.

No wan used to sail in the thrawler wud Andy exceptin’ two cousins of his by the mother’s side, named Pat Carroll and Mick Egan, an’ the cousins wor just as dark an’ as dangerous as Andy himself.

Well, wan day, afther the longest voyage he had ever made, Andy dhropped his anchor at the quay of Cork; an’ laivin’ Pat and Mick an’ a new hand, a cabin boy, in charge of the thrawler, he started to walk to the Rock of Cashel.

Three days an’ three nights he was on the road—for of course this was in the oulden times before a horse-an’-car, let alone a railway thrain was invinted—an’ on the mornin’ of the fourth day he found himself undher the Rock.

“Good morra, major,” says he to the sinthry that was walkin’ up an’ down outside the enthrance.

“Good morra, sthranger,” says the sinthry. “Have you been long on the thramp?”

“Three days an’ three nights,” says Andy.

“An’ where are you from?” axes the sinthry.

“The Cove of Cork,” says Andy, who generally had a short way of spaykin’ in conversation.

“An’ what’s your business here?” axes the sinthry.

“To see the King of Munsther,” says Andy.

Begor the sinthry began to laugh thin, an’ says he, “P’raps ’tis a poor relation of the King’s you are?”

“No, nor a rich wan aither,” says Andy; “but I came to see him all the same.”

“Have you an ordher?” says the sinthry.

“No,” says Andy.

“Thin I wondhers at your cheek,” says the sinthry.

“You’re welcome,” says Andy.

“Arrah get on out of this about your business,” says the sinthry, “or I’ll give you a taste of the fore-fut of my pike just to remind you of who you’re spaykin’ to.”

“Keep your ould iron to yerself,” says Andy. “I’m not a marine-store dayler.”

“Faix an’ that’s what I thought you wor,” says the sinthry, thryin’ to have the laugh agen Andy.

“Did you?” says Andy, lookin’ very black. “Look at here,” says he, liftin’ his shut fist an’ givin’ the Rock of Cashel a box of it that knocked splinthers of stone flyin’ across the road, “did you ever meet a marine-store dayler that could do that?”

Begor, the sinthry turned as white as a ghost, an’ says he, “Who are you at all, my fine man?”

“Andy Merrigan from Roche’s Point is my name an’ addhress,” says Andy; “an’ if you don’t take that up to the king this minute I’ll undhermine the foundations before I breaks my fast.”

The sinthry saw there ’ud be no use in rousin’ the timper of a man wud a fist like Andy’s, so he blew his thrumpet an’ another soger answered the call.

“Tell King Cormac”—for that was the King of Munsther’s name—says the sinthry, “there’s a sthranger here called Andy Merrigan from Roche’s Point, that wants a word wud him; and tell him from me,” says he, “that he’d best see him at wance.”

Andy wasn’t kept waitin’ long, for in about five minutes the messenger came back to say King Cormac would see him if he would come upstairs. So Andy mounted the Rock and was shown into the King’s dhrawin’-room.

“Laive on yer hat,” says King Cormac, who was sittin’ in an arm-chair at a big fire, “for there’s a powerful dhraught up here, an’ maybe ’tis ketch cowld you would.”

“Thank ye kindly,” says Andy; “but sure I’m used to hurricanes, an’ I’d feel more at my aise if I wor to keep my hat in my hand.”

“Well, plaize yerself,” says King Cormac, givin’ the fire a stir wud a goolden poker. “What’s your business?” says he.

“I’m a man of few words,” says Andy, “an’ I’ll not enther into a long rigmarole.”

“I’m glad of that,” says King Cormac, “for I can’t give you more than ten minutes by the clock.”

“Faith thin if you knew what a wondherful plan I have to lay before you I think you’d be glad to spare me the whole run of a day,” says Andy, wud a toss of his head.

“That’s what ye all says,” laughs the King.

“Maybe,” says Andy; “but, as I’ve towld you before, I’m a man of few words.”

“I suppose you saves your breath to cool your porridge,” says the King, who had an aggravatin’ way of givin’ a sthranger ten minutes’ talk wud him an’ of squandherin’ all the time in banther.

“Well,” says Andy, “to go straight to the point—”

“Roche’s Point, is it?” intherrupts the King.

“No, nor potatoes an’ point aither,” says Andy, who saw through the thricks of the King. “An’ let me tell yer majesty,” says he, “that if you don’t give fair heed to me I’ll take meself an’ me plan straight over to Tara’s Halls.”

“Keep your hair on,” says King Cormac, seein’ that Andy was sore vexed.

“’Tisn’t aisy to do that wud the draught,” says Andy, lookin’ as black as tundher; “but I’ll do my endeavours; an’ you may thank yourself, if you lose the chance of a kingdom that I’m afther discoverin’ a hundhred times as big as Munsther.”

“What’s that you say, my man?” says King Cormac, turnin’ round quickly in his aisy chair an’ lookin’ hard at Andy.

“Well, will you hear me fair?” says Andy, “clock or no clock?”

“I will,” says the King, for his cur’osity was on the sthretch at the sthrange remark that came from Andy.

“I’ll take you at your word, thin,” says Andy; “an’ this is my story an’ my plan. You must know,” says he, “that I’m the greatest sailor in these parts, an’ that win’ or weather, say or storm, have no terrors for me. Often I goes hundhreds an’ hundhreds of miles out into the western ocean if the fish is scarce in shore, an’ for that raison the cowardly bla’guards that are afeard to venture out of sighth of land tells stories of me behind my back. I mintion this,” says Andy, “fearin’ that if yer majesty came to Cork you’d hear things said about me that might turn you agen me, an’ I want to put you on yer guard beforehand.”

“But what about this tundherin’ big counthry you wor spaykin’ of?” axes King Cormac, who didn’t care a thrauneen about Andy an’ his back-bithers, but was aiger to hear about the new kingdom.

“I’m comin’ to it,” says Andy.

“I thought you wor there already,” says the King, chucklin’ undher his breath.

“Look at here,” says Andy, “maybe you’d like me to make a present of it to the King of all Ireland over at Tara beyant? If that’s your mind best say so at wance.”

“Arrah, don’t be so quick in your temper,” says King Cormac. “Sure a man must have his joke now an’ again. Go on, Andy,” says he, “tell us all about it, avic.—Maybe ’tis dhry you are. I have a nice dhrop of the hard stuff here, if that’s in your line at all.”

“Begor,” says Andy, “I was never known to turn my back on a good thing.”

So the King opens a big cupboard an’ tuk out a black bottle. “Say whin,” says he to Andy, pourin’ out the whisky into a tumbler for him.

“That’ll do,” says Andy, whin the tumbler was more than three parts full.

“You didn’t laive much room for the wather,” says the King.

“Wather, is it?” says Andy. “Arrah, my dear man, ’tis deluged enough wud wather I usually do be. Anyhow I prefers it nate,” says he, tossin’ off the tumbler-full at wan go.

“’Tis a sthrong man you are!” says King Cormac. “There isn’t a tear in your eye nor a hair turned on you, an’ that’s new Cork whisky, twinty over proof.”

“I’m used to it,” says Andy; “an’ use is second nature, I’m towld.”

“Well, go on wud yer story now,” says the King, “for I’m dyin’ to hear about this new counthry you’ve discovered. Did you find a mare’s nest in it?” says he, pourin’ a dhrop out of the bottle into a tumbler for himself.

“No, nor a cuckoo’s aither,” says Andy. “’Pon my song, I dunno whether ’tis humbuggin’ me you are or what.”

“Well, I’ll be as sayrious as Solomon for the rest of the intherview,” says King Cormac. “I see you’re not used to the ways of the quality.”

“You’re right there,” says Andy. “I’m a plain man at the best, a plain dayler an’ a plain spayker; an’ this is my story. Last voyage I sailed out of Cork wud my two cousins, Mike Egan and Pat Carroll, an’ havin’ business round on the coast of Clare I put into the Shannon for a spell, an’ there I shipped a new hand, a young Scotch lad named Sandy, as a cabin boy.”

“What’s his other name?” axes King Cormac, takin’ out his note book, “for I likes always to have full particulars.”

“Hook is his surname,” says Andy.

“Thin,” says King Cormac, “when you left the Shannon, I suppose I may say you tuk your Hook?”

“Just as you plaize,” says Andy, not heedin’ the joke; “an’ as fish wor scarce in by the coast I put the thrawler on a long reach wud her head to the westhard. Well, afther a week’s sail an’ no fish, a terrible gale came out from the nor’a’d and aisthard, an’ I was obliged to run the thrawler before the win’ undher bare poles. Four weeks afther startin’ from the Shannon the cabin boy shouts out ‘Land-o;’ an’ sure enough we sighthed a point of land which we christened Sandy Hook, afther the boy.”

“Well?” says the King, his cur’osity fairly roused.

“The same day,” says Andy, “we found ourselves in an iligant bay wud a most beautiful counthry surroundin’ it. Of coorse we wor clane out of provisions for some days, an’ the sighth of the new land where no wan ever thought there was a dhry spot before nearly dhrove us out of our wits wud joy. We ran the thrawler right in for the shore an’ beached her safely, an’ thin we jumped ashore in ordher to see where we cud get a bite an’ a sup. In about half a pig’s whisper the beach was crowded wud niggers, wud scarcely a screed of clothes on ’em. There was a big man wud a necklace hangin’ from his showldhers at the head of the crowd that looked like a chief nigger, so I goes up to him an’ says I, ‘We’re frindly, I gives you my word; an’, what’s more, we’re famishin’ wud hunger an’ thirst. If you haven’t a rasher of bacon handy could you give us a fill of tobaccy?’ The chief shuk his head as much as to say ‘I can’t undherstand you,’ and he begins to jabber away in some sort of lingo I couldn’t make head or tail of. ‘What’ll we do at all, at all?’ says I to meself; an’ thin a grand idaya sthruck me all of a suddint.

“I learnt the deaf-an’-dumb alphabet at school for divarsion, and I cud talk on my fingers wud the greatest dummy in Cork, so I began to make signs to the chief, wud my hands, an’ begor the ould nigger twigged what I was doin’ at wance. So he beckoned to a man in the crowd, an’ a little fellow, whom I aftherwards found was the headmasther of a deaf-an’-dumb school, stepped out forenest me an’ in a minute we were hard at it, talkin’ to aich other on our fingers. ‘Who or what are ye at all, at all?’ axes the little nigger. ‘We’re christhins, to begin wud,’ says I, answerin’ him back of coorse on my fingers. ‘What’s christhins?’ says he. ‘Did you never hear of St. Pathrick?’ says I. ‘Never,’ says he. Indeed I might have made sure that ’ud be the answer I’d get, for at laiste St. Pathrick if he ever visited the niggers would have inthroduced a tailor among ’em. ‘Well,’ says I, puzzled to know how to explain matthers, ‘we’re all Irishmen too, exceptin’ the boy here, an’ he comes from Scotland.’ ‘What’s Irishmen?’ says he. ‘Arrah,’ says I, ‘is it jokin’ you are, or do you mane to tell me you never heard of ould Ireland?’ ‘Never,’ says the nigger; ‘’tis a puzzle to me to make sense out of you at all. Maybe,’ says he, wud a grin on him like a monkey, ‘you’re something else?’ ‘We are, thin,’ says I, ‘whether you laughs or no. We’re Corkmen—three parts of us, at any rate.’ ‘Three parts of ye is cork!’ says he; ‘an’ what’s the other part made of?’ ‘Arrah, my dear man,’ says I, ‘there’s no use in losin’ my time an’ my temper thryin’ to enlighten your ignorance. I’ll wait till I larns to spake your langwidge, an’ thin I’ll be able to make you undherstand me properly. An’ now,’ says I, ‘will you answer me what I’ll ax you?’ ‘Wud pleasure,’ says the little nigger. ‘What counthry is this?’ says I. ‘Injy,’ says he. ‘An’ are ye all Red Injuns?’ says I. ‘We are,’ says he, ‘every mother’s son of us.’ ‘What’s the name of this town an’ harbour?’ says I, pointin’ to the hape of mud cabins in shore, an’ to the beautiful bay forenest us. ‘New York,’ says he. ‘An’ who is the big man at the head of ye there?’ says I, pointin’ to the nigger, who had gone up the beach a bit wud some of the faymales. ‘I mane the chap I made the first offer at discoorsin’ to.’ ‘He’s the King of New York,’ says he. ‘A wondher he don’t dhress himself more dacently!’ says I. ‘Dhress!’ says he. ‘Why ’tis in full dhress he is now.’ ‘An’ is a necklace an’ a rub of paint full dhress in these parts?’ says I. ‘It is,’ says the little nigger. ‘It doesn’t cost over much to be fashionable here,’ says I. ‘No’, says he, ‘we spend the bulk of our money on aitin’ and dhrinkin’.’

“Begor, yer majesty! the mintion of grub gave me a pain in the stomach, so I axed the little man if he could knock up a male for us, as we were all ready to dhrop wud the hunger. ‘I’ll spake to the King,’ says he. So he goes over to the big nigger, an’ I suppose he towld him all he could about us, an’ whatever it was he towld him it made the king laugh a dale. Then the little nigger beckoned to me to come over to the King. To tell the thruth I felt a thrifle ashamed of goin’ over near the women, but, faix! the hunger takes most of the timidness out of a man, so I plucked up the courage, an’ over I goes to the King. Well, by manes of the intarpinther—the little nigger—the King and meself had a long discoorse, but the dickens a bit of me could make the poor ignorant darkey undherstand that we wor human craychurs like himself; and maybe you’ll think ’tis a lie I’m tellin’ you, King Cormac,” says Andy, “but ’tis as thrue as Gospel that the King of New York thought, from what the little nigger was afther tellin’ him, that three-quarthers of us was made of cork, an’ that what he could see of us—I mane our face an’ our hands—was the only naatural part of us.”

“It bates all,” says King Cormac, laughin’ hearty. “Divil the like ever I heard! But go on wud your story, Misther Merryan.”

“Well,” says Andy, “I saw there was no use just thin in thryin’ to persuade the King of New York that it wasn’t samples of virgin cork three parts of us wor; but, faith! I had an onaisy feelin’ that he might have it in his mind to cut us up for cork fendhers an’ the like, and you may be sure I had no intintion of allowin’ meself to be made into a sthopper for a bung-hole, so I towld him if he’d give me a private intherview in the coorse of a few days, when I’d have picked up some of the lingo, I could explain matthers to him. ‘In the manetime,’ says I to him, ‘for the love of goodness, give the four of us something to fill our insides wud!’ ‘What ’ud you like?’ says the King of New York. ‘Well, if it’s no inconvaynience to the coort,’ says I, ‘we’d prefer a good male of bacon and cabbage to anything you could offer; and if you could see your way to let us moisten that same wud some whisky-an’-wather, I’d be undher a heavy load of obligation to you.’ Well, wud that the King gev ordhers to have the biggest side of bacon in the palace taken off the hooks an’ boiled for us; ‘an’ while ’tis cookin’,’ says he, ‘maybe you’d like to break your fast on the remains of a cowld showldher of mutton left from Sunday’s dinner?’”

“That reminds me,” says King Cormac, “that I never axed you if you had a mouth on you. I think there’s the remains of a half pig’s head here,” says he, goin’ over to the cupboard and taking a heavy goold dish out of it.

“Faix!” says Andy, “if you wor thryin’ to discover what was in my mind this minute, you couldn’t have hit the mark more close. I’m nearly famished wud the hunger, but, of coorse, I didn’t like to be makin’ meself too much at home on a first visit, or I’d have mintioned the fact before.”

“Betther late than never,” says King Cormac. “Hunger is the best sauce, an’ the chapest too, so you’ll excuse me for not offerin’ you anything barrin’ the knife an’ fork.”

“Don’t mintion it,” says Andy.

“’Tis a nice piece of mate,” says King Cormac. “You find it tindher, don’t you?”

“Like a spring chicken,” says Andy.

“I suppose you can talk while you’re aitin’?” says King Cormac.

“I can,” says Andy, though the words nearly choked him. Of coorse, he had to thry an’ put on his quality manners when he was discoorsin’ wud a king, but it tuk him all his time to spake plain wud his mouth full.

“Go on, thin,” says King Cormac. “What I’m anxious to hear,” says he, “is what’s the size of this new counthry, an’ what soort of a place it is in general.”

“That’s what I’m comin’ to,” says Andy.

“Thin come to it quick,” says King Cormac, “for half my mornin’ is gone already, an’ I’ve a dale of business to attend to.”

Andy’s hunger was partly satisfied by this, so he laid down his knife an’ fork, an’ says he, “Well, to hurry matthers up, this Injy is a mighty big counthry. They tell me ’twould take a man, walkin’ twinty mile a day, nearly half a year to get to the other side of it.”

“Dhraw it mild,” says King Cormac.

“Faith! ’tis the thruth I’m telling you,” says Andy. “An’, now,” says he, “I comes to the point where I’ll have to ax your majesty to give me full considheration. I spent the best part of two months wud the Injuns, an’ ’tis right well they thrated me. The innocent craychurs have no idaya at all of the value of land; all they thinks of is aitin’ an’ dhrinkin’, crackin’ jokes, an’ playing tambourines. Just to show what sort they are, I may tell you that wan day, afther I had made christhins of ’em all an’ taught ’em how to spake English, the King axed me to write me name in the visithors’ book, so I wrote down wud a flourish, ‘A. Merrigan.’ He looks at the writin’, an’ says he, ‘For the future we’ll call ourselves afther you.’ So the word wint forth that all the Injuns all over the counthry wor to be known in future as Amerrigans, an’ they calls the counthry for short, Amerriga. They has a way of choppin’ their words, you see.”

“’Tis a proud man you ought to be,” says King Cormac. “Do you mind shakin’ hands wud me?”

So, begor, Andy an’ the King of Munsther shuk hands, an’ the tears rowled down King Cormac’s cheeks wud the hard grip Andy fastened on him, but he was a proud man, an’ wouldn’t let on he was hurt if a mule wor to give him a kick in the ribs.

“Well,” says Andy, “even callin’ the counthry afther me wouldn’t satisfy ould Sambo—the King of New York, I mane—but the next thing he did was to summon a meetin’ of his head follyers; an’, wudout a word of a lie, they towld me they had made up their minds to give me a present of the whole counthry if I’d marry the King of New York’s eldest daughther.”

“An’ did you take the offer?” says King Cormac.

“Of coorse I did,” says Andy; “an’ not to be outdone by a parcel of niggers in ginerosity, the first thing I did was to make my two cousins a present of as much of the counthry as they tuk a fancy to. Pat Carroll went down South, an’ he measured out a two big thracts of land, an’ called ’em North and South Carrollina; and Mick Egan went a bit in from the coast an’ measured out another slice an’ called it Michael Egan; but the darkeys, I hear, shortened that to Michegan.”

“An’ what did you do for the cabin boy?”

“To tell you the thruth,” says Andy, “I didn’t like to make a king of him, or give him a big thract of counthry, on account of his not bein’ an Irishman; but I made him a present of the first land we sighthed; an’ being a smart lad he tuk what he could get wud a good grace an’ detarmined to make the most of his little slice. He’s goin’ to build a lighthouse on it shortly, an’ charge a toll to the ships that pass; an’ I have no manner of doubt he’ll pick up a good livin’ at ‘Sandy Hook,’ for he’s a knowin’ young shaver.”

“Did you bring the wife home wud you?” axed King Cormac.

“Not this thrip,” says Andy. “I got her to laive her measure for a dhress, an’ ’twasn’t finished by the time I had to come away.”

“She’s black of coorse?” says King Cormac.

“Black as the ace of spades,” says Andy; “but I’m towld she’ll bleach in the sun, an’ even if she don’t turn the right colour,” says he, “sure I can give her an odd coat of whitewash now an’ again.”

“You haven’t towld me what sort of a counthry it is,” says King Cormac; “maybe ’tis all bog.”

“Bog!” says Andy, curlin’ his lip. “There isn’t a bit of bog land in it from Aist to West.”

“An’ what do they grow in it?” says King Cormac.

“Everything,” says Andy; “but mostly goold nuggets.”

“What!” says King Cormac, startin’ up out of his aisy chair.

“No wondher you’re astonished,” says Andy.

“Goold nuggets!” says the King of Munsther.

“Ay,” says Andy, “’tis rotten wud ’em the counthry is. I wint out to the diggin’s,” says he, “an’ there’s as much goold in wan field there as ’ud build the Rock of Cashel twice over.”

“Murdher alive!” says the King; “’tis a great place intirely it must be! But what is it you want a poor sthrugglin’ man like me to do for you, Andy?”

“Not much,” says Andy, “but little as it is it manes a dale to me. You see the goold is no value at all at all in my counthry.”

“But sure you could bring a few cargoes of it over here?” says King Cormac.

“That’s the very thing I came to consult wud yerself about,” says Andy. “You see if I wor to bring a load of it into Cork harbour ’tis saised on it wud be, an’, I’ll go bail some of my neighbours ’ud be bla’guards enough to swear I didn’t come by it honest. Now here’s my offer to you, King Cormac,” says Andy. “I have no likin’ at all to be a king, especially wud nothing but a lot of tambourine-playin’ niggers for my subjects, an’ my proposal to you this blessed mornin’ is to sell you the whole counthry for a hundred pound down on the nail, wud the perviso that I’m allowed to take as much goold out of it as me own little thrawler can carry, for I’m not a covechous man at all.”

“Will you give me that in writin’?” says King Cormac.

“Of coorse,” says Andy; “but there’s wan more condition.”

“What’s that?” says King Cormac.

“That you buys my cargo for the Mint,” says Andy.

“How much do you want for it?” says King Cormac.

“The market price,” says Andy.

“Will you take Griffith’s valuation,” says King Cormac, who was a hard hand at buyin’ or sellin’.

“Well, not to break your word, I will,” says Andy.

“Then it’s a bargain,” says King Cormac. “I’ll send for my head clerk, an’ we’ll dhraw up the agreement.”

So the head clerk of the coort was sint for, an’ he dhrew up a great long dockyment that ’ud cover the side of a barracks, an’ King Cormac and Andy signed their names at the fut of it.

“I’ll give you my dhraft on the Munsther Bank,” says King Cormac, “for the hundhred pound.”

“Will there be any charge for cashin’ it?” says Andy.

“No,” says King Cormac, “I’m always on the right side of the books there, an’ I’m a head directhor into the bargain.”

“Well, I’ll be sayin’ good-bye now,” says Andy, taking the dhraft from King Cormac; “an’ you may expect to hear of me again in or about three months’ time.”

“Howld on a bit!” says King Cormac. “When am I to enther into possession of the new counthry?”

“Whin I comes back, of coorse,” says Andy. “If I was to bring you over wud me now maybe the Injuns ’ud make some objections to my takin’ the goold out of the counthry. ’Tis best to keep ’em in the dark for a spell about this bargain of ours. Maybe ’tis a rebellion they’d rise agen you if you wor to go over hot fut afther me, for they have their feelin’s, of coorse.”

“Of coorse,” says King Cormac. “But make your voyage as quick as you can, Andy, for ’tis dyin’ I am to take charge of this new counthry of mine.”

“I’ll be as quick as win’ and weather will permit,” says Andy; “an’ barrin’ accidents of navigation you may reckon on me, say, for this day three months. Good-bye now,” says he, givin’ King Cormac’s fist another hearty grip.

“Good-bye,” says King Cormac, “an’ a quick voyage to you, my sweet fellow!”

So Andy walked back to Cork an’ cashed the King’s dhraft on the bank, an’ thin he goes down to the quay an’ jumped aboord the thrawler.

“Up stick, boys!” says he to the crew. “We have just three months to do it, so ye’ll have to work purty hard an’ constant.”

Well, in three months to the very day Andy sails up Cork river wance more. His little craft was down to the scuppers in the wather, an’ seein’ her so deep the revenue boat pulls off an’ an officer jumps aboord.

“Where are you from?” axes the revenue man.

“We’re from New York,” says Andy.

“There’s no such a place,” says the revenue man.

“That only shows your ignorance,” says Andy.

“It isn’t down on the charts, anyhow,” says the revenue man, partly losin’ his timper.

“Of coorse it isn’t,” says Andy, “for ’twas only discovered by meself some months back.”

“Is that so?” says the revenue man. “An’ what’s the bearin’s of it?”

“That’s my saycrit,” says Andy.

“’Tis a dark man, you are!” says the revenue officer, who knew Andy well by sighth.

“You’re not the first that thought so,” says Andy.

“Have you any smuggled tobaccy aboord?” says the revenue man.

“Only what’s allowed for ship’s use on the voyage,” says Andy, answerin’ him back mighty independent.

“I see you knows the law,” says the revenue man.

“Purty fair,” says Andy.

“An’ what’s your cargo?” says the revenue man.

“Goold for the mint,” says Andy.

“Goold!” says the revenue man, nearly dhroppin’ wud surprise.

“Ay,” says Andy, “an’ very good goold it is too.”

“Where are you goin’ to land it?” says the revenue man.

“Wherever the King of Munsther ordhers me, for ’tis sowld to his own self. An’ look here,” says he, “I won’t have any meddlin’ wud my affairs. If you gives me the laste throuble or annoyance I’ll complain of you to King Cormac, an’ he’ll give you your discharge purty quick, I can tell you, for he’s undher a heavy obligation to me.”

Begor the revenue man sung purty small after that, for he knew that King Cormac was quick in his timper, an’ of coorse if Andy was to tell on him, maybe ’tis cut off his pinsion the King would as well as give him his discharge. So he says to Andy in a frindly way, “Well, I’ll put a man in charge if you have no objections. ’Twill keep the quay boys off at any rate, Andy, if they sees a man wud a gun aboord.”

“Very well,” says Andy. “Only let it be undherstood that I’ve left ordhers wud my cousin, Pat Carroll, to hang any wan from the yardarm by martial law who attimpts to meddle wud the cargo.”

“I suppose you’re goin’ straight to the Rock of Cashel now,” says the revenue man, seein’ Andy takin’ off his sou’westher and fixin’ a top hat on his head.

“I am,” says Andy.

“You might put in a good word for me wud the King,” says the revenue man.

“I’ll wait till I comes back,” says Andy; “an’ if I hears a good account of your man from Pat Carroll, I’ll sartinly see that your wages is raised.”

“More power to your elbow!” says the revenue man. “Let me give you a leg over the side,” says he.

So Andy stepped over the rail and dhropped into a small boat that landed him safe and sound on the quay, an’ then he started to thramp it again to the Rock of Cashel. The sinthry knew him this time an’ let him in at wance, and Andy walked up the steps of the Rock an’ knocked at the dhrawin’-room door.

“Come in,” says King Cormac, so in Andy wint.

“Well, here I am again,” says he, “thrue to my promise. I know I’m a few days behind time, but there was a nasty slop of a say outside for the past forty-eight hours, an’ I was rather in dhread of makin’ for the enthrance of the harbour.”

“You worn’t in dhread of makin’ sail out of the enthrance of the Shannon the day before yestherday,” says King Cormac, lookin’ hard at Andy.

“What do you mane?” says Andy, turnin’ rather white in the gills.

“Nothing,” says King Cormac. “Only a joke.”

“’Tis a quare way of jokin’ you have,” says Andy.

“Maybe,” says King Cormac, who seemed very short in his conversation this mornin’.

“I brought the cargo of goold,” says Andy.

“Did you?” says the King. “An’ did you bring the wife? for I’m rather anxious to see wan of my new subjects.”

“Well,” says Andy, an’ there was a kind of a stammer in his voice, “I brought her right enough, but I landed the poor girl at Roche’s Point, for she was mortial say-sick on the voyage.”

“Thin, I can see her of coorse?” says King Cormac.

“You can,” says Andy, “as soon as she gets the rowl of the westhern ocean out of her head.”

“’Tis a puzzlin’ business altogether,” says the King half to himself. “Look here, Andy,” says he, “I may as well tell you the honest thruth, for I don’t like to condimn a man wudhout givin’ him a fair chance. There’s a sayrious charge brought agen you this week.”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised at that,” says Andy. “I towld you long ago that the neighbours wor never tired of backbitin’ me.”

“’Tisn’t a neighbour this time,” says the King. “’Tis a Portingale man.”[1]

“Yerrah!” says Andy, “sure a king of your parts wouldn’t believe the daylight from a Portingale man!”

“That depinds,” says King Cormac.

“An’ what does the bla’guard say agen me?” says Andy.

“I’ll tell you,” says the King; “an’ if you don’t disprove it I’ll hang you in chains as sure as my name is Cormac of Munsther.”

“That’s purty sure by all accounts,” says Andy,

thryin’ to show he took little heed of what any Portingale man could say about him; but he didn’t look much at his aise, I can tell you.

“Maybe ’tis laugh at the wrong side of your mouth you will before I’m done wud you,” says King Cormac; “an’ this is the charge agen you. Last week it seems you sailed into the Shannon—”

“I won’t deny it,” intherrupts Andy. “’Twas the first landin’ place I could get a grip of. I was run out of tobaccy an’ of salt pork, an’ I’m partial to Limerick twist an’ Limerick bacon.”

“Very well,” says the King. “Your acknowledgin’ the charge saves me the throuble of summonin’ eye-witnesses. Anyhow, in Limerick you wint into a public-house. Do you deny that?”

“I don’t,” says Andy; “nor I don’t deny I had a dhrop too much aither.”

“Very well,” says the King; “but you’re not obliged to make charges agen yerself. At any rate, this Portingale man saw you in this public house, an’ he recognized you at wance. It seems you boorded a ship he was sailin’ in some years back, loaded wud a general cargo, an’ afther murdherin’ all aboord you tuk away the valuable part of this cargo, amongst which wor a lot of bags of Portingale goold.”

“That’s a quare story, sure enough,” says Andy. “Now if I murdhered every wan aboard, how could this fellow you’re spaykin’ of be in Limerick last week?”

“He was in hidin’ in the lazareet,” says the King, “an’ that’s how you missed him.”

Begor Andy didn’t look at all well whin he heard this, but he was a desperate darin’ man, an’ says he, “I know what you’re dhrivin’ at, King Cormac. You mane to make out that ’tis a pirate I am, an’ that the story I towld you about the great new counthry is only moonshine.”

“Exactly,” says King Cormac.

“’Tis aisy to disprove that, at any rate,” says Andy. “If any of my prisent cargo is in Portingale money, or in the money of any counthry known to the prisent generation, I’ll give you laife to hang draw an’ quarther me before mornin’.”

“Do you take me for an omadhaun?” says King Cormac. “Do you think I never heard of a meltin’-pot?”

Andy was silent for a spell afther that remark, an’ whin he spoke again there was a sthrange hoarseness in his voice. “I see,” says he, “that things look black agen me, but for all that I can clear myself if I only gets a fair chance.”

“I’ll give you every chance in the world,” says King Cormac.

“Look at here!” says Andy, “If I shows you my black-skinned wife will you believe me?”

“I will,” says King Cormac; “but I’ll take care you don’t make a hare of me this time. I’ll put three armed revenue men in the thrawler, an’ I’ll see that every weapon is taken from your boat, an thin you can sail down to Roche’s Point an’ bring me back your wife; an’ mind you,” says King Cormac, “’twon’t do to thry an’ desayve me by coatin’ wan of my own subjects wud gas tar, for I’ll have the coort physician to examine the woman—that is if you brings her here. An’ if you don’t bring her,” says he, “take my word for it I’ll hang you in chains from the top of the Rock.”

Faith, Andy saw the King was in fair airnest, so he never said a word more, but allowed himself to be taken down to Cork undher a sthrong escort. His thrawler was examined carefully an’ all the weapons wor taken out of her, an’ three armed men wor put aboord.

’Twas nigh dusk when they started the fishin’-boat from the quay of Cork, an’ the win’ rose to a gale before they got abreast of Grab-all Bay. The revenue men implored Andy to put into the Bay for shelter or to run back to Queenstown, but he persuaded ’em to let him continue his journey. “No say nor win’ was ever a match for me,” says he; “an’ I can steer my craft through the eye of a needle.”

An’, sure enough, ’twas a wondherful hand at the tiller he was. Every big lump of a say that threatened to swamp the little boat Andy dodged as aisy as children dodge wan another at blindman’s-buff; but for all that the revenue men wor ready to die of the fright. At last the thrawler was nearly abreast of Roche’s Point, an’ the say was rowlin’ in mountains high, an’ the win’ was roarin’ loud enough to burst the dhrum of your ear.

“Study now!” shouts Andy, an’ his voice was heard clear above the tundher of the gale an’ the say. “Study!” he shouts again; “an’ say your last prayer quick, for this minute we die!”

An’ as he said the words he gripped the tiller in his two fists an’ sent the thrawler’s head right into the mouth of the biggest say that ever rowled into Cork harbour; an’ under she went, goold an’ all an’ rose no more.

To this day they’re many that believe Andy Merrigan discovered the New World; an’ faix if he didn’t ’tis sthrange enough that generations afterwards when Columbus ventured across the Atlantic he found the place called afther Andy, and parts of it afther his crew. At any rate, of a winther’s night whin the sky is heavy an’ the win’ is high, the people from Roche’s Point will tell you they see the thrawler sthrugglin’ in the trough of an angry say, an’ loudher than the sounds of the elements is heard the last shout of Andy Merrigan an’ the terrible cry of the six hands that wint down wud him.