Tim Jarvis.

Tim Jarvis was as decent and hardworking a man as any one could wish to know, till the evil spirit got astride his imagination. Tim was not only a decent, hardworking man, but recollected his early lessons, that the evil one should be resisted with might and main.

Nor was it during the day that the enemy, at first, attempted to gain any advantage; but it was at night that he mainly worked upon his mind by means of dreams.

Night after night he dreamed of treasures of gold and precious stones that were to be found, first in one place and then in another, till it grew too much for him, and his waking hours were scarcely different to dreaming. He was now found digging anywhere but in his garden or potatoe field; and indeed his dreams led him all the way from Ireland to London-bridge, with his spade across his shoulder.

Now, when poor Tim was on London-bridge he felt himself more puzzled than ever he had been in his life; he was quite bewildered by the confusion and noise, and being pushed from one side to another; but after a while he began to recover himself; and as he walked up and down, first on one side and then on the other, he tried the ground with his spade, but quite accidentally like, or as if it were a walking-stick, for he was wide awake.

“For sure,” he said to himself, “I’m not going to let so many people suspect what treasure is lying under their feet.”

He was encouraged by the hollowness of the sound; but then again his spirits sank, for he found no spot where his spade could make the slightest impression, nay, he doubted whether he could stick a pin in anywhere, so hard were the stones.

When it had grown dark, and the bridge was still crowded, he began to fear that all the people were there for the same purpose as himself; but he was determined that he would tire them out; and indeed the numbers did gradually decrease.

St. Paul’s had just struck twelve, when a stranger, stopping just in front of our friend, said—

“Well, Tim, you have come a long way, but you might have done better nearer home. You know, Tim, the lane that runs at the back of your cabin, and you know the old wall, for I’ve seen you digging under that many a night. Well, Tim, you were in the right road, but too near home. I’ve seen you turn sharp round that wall, and, crossing the big bog, look longingly at the heap of stones behind the furze-bush in Terry O’Toole’s field.”

“Yes,” sighed Tim; “but it would have been more than my life was worth to dig there, for though Terry knows well that his whole field is nothing but ugly stones, he would murther man, woman, or child who stuck a spade in any part of the ground—the big baste.”

“True for you, Tim,” the stranger said, “but the gold is there.” After these words the stranger was gone as suddenly as he had appeared, and poor Tim was left, more puzzled than ever.

“May be,” he said to himself, “its desaiving me he is, that he may have the digging of Lunnon-bridge all to hisself, but then sorrow a spadeful of earth could any one throw up here, in all his life. No, it was to meet the sthrainger that I came all the way here without knowing it, so now I’ll go back to ould Ireland.”

Tim did go back, and, after selling his potatoe-field, bought the waste bit of land, which O’Toole was pleased to call a field.

What did Tim care, when all the neighbours called him mad, or even when his wife threatened him because he sold the bed from under her to buy a new spade and pick, for he knew it was troublesome ground he had to work in, and no mistake.

When night came, after he had all ready, Tim went to his new property, and, hard as the work was, did not rest till the first grey of morning began to appear. Just then, through a crack in the ground, he thought he heard voices below. He listened, scarcely drawing his breath, when all the breath was frightened out of him, for he plainly heard—

“We’ll give Tim a nice dance when he comes for our gold.”

When he had recovered himself a bit, he scrambled out of the hole as fast as possible, and went home, where he met with no over-pleasant reception from his wife.

A strange day that was which Tim spent, divided between rejoicing and trembling, for he knew now for certain that gold was there; but he knew, too, that there were some sort of beings to be dealt with; and what were those beings? His hair stood on end as he pictured some frightful monsters to himself; but yet all must be risked to gain possession of the gold, and he said, “It’s mighty polite I’ll be to the gintlemen, and sure they won’t harm a poor man.”

Over and over again he repeated what he should say to the “gintlemen,” and thus the day passed; the most anxious day of his life. He took care to arm himself with more than natural courage, in the shape of a bottle of potheen, of which he took a sup, and then another, and then a still longer one, before he jumped into the hole.

In the darkness, for night had come on, he plainly saw a light shining through the crack in the ground, as the night before, so he immediately set to work; and he had not thrown up many spades of earth, when the ground gave way, and he sank down, he never knew how low, nor could he ever recollect more than that he found himself surrounded by the strangest little beings, who were all jabbering at once, and seemed very angry.

He remembered that he made them his best of bows, and gave them his fairest words, when the tallest of them, stepping forward, addressed Tim thus:—

“Tim, we see that you are a decent, well-spoken, and polite gentleman, and in your case we will overlook our privacy being intruded on, which you must look upon as a great favour.”

“And ’tis very much obleged that I am to your honer and the other gintlemen, and sure ’tis I that will never forget it; but might I not make so bold as to tell you that I am a poor man, and ask your honour whether you could not help me with a thrifle?”

There was a loud shout of laughter, and then the same little fellow that had addressed him before, said, “Well, Tim, we have plenty of the rubbish you all think so much of. There, take as much of the gold as you can carry.”

Tim saw that the ground was covered with guineas, which he set to picking up as fast as he could stow them away, and when he could not find room for one more, he took both his hands full, sighing that he must leave so many behind.

Then the little people cried out, “Go home, Tim Jarvis; but shut your eyes close, or some mischief will happen to you.”

He did as he was told, and felt himself whisked through the air quicker than lightning. Some time after he knew that he no longer moved, he ventured to open his eyes, for he felt a mighty tugging at his hair. He found himself by the side of the hole he had been digging, and his wife, who had grown tired of his strange ways of late, was shaking him rather roughly.

“Lave the breath in me,” he cried, “and I will fill your apron with golden guineas.” He put his hand in his pocket, but only pulled out a few yellow furze-blossoms. When he saw this Tim was quite[113]
[114] dejected, and did not venture to answer a word to his wife’s reproaches, but allowed himself to be led home.

From that night he left off dreaming; and taking again to his industrious, hardworking habits, soon made up for his past neglect, and was not only able to buy back his potatoe-field, but became a happy, flourishing man.

His wife used to say that it was only a dream about the little people and the gold, for that certainly she had found him asleep; but Tim shook his head.