Nobody could listen to Ned M'Grane's laughter and refrain from laughing himself; it was so airy, so wholehearted, so pleasant, that it became, after the initial explosion, contagious, and if the forge were full of young fellows—as it generally was—the smith's hearty "Ha, ha, ha-ah!" set them all in tune, and there would be a chorus of laughter under that old roof fit to rouse the most despondent heart that ever made its owner believe he was in the blues, and that caused passers-by to stand for a moment on the road and listen, and they usually murmured, as they wagged their heads and walked on, "Ned must be after tellin' a good one now." It was, I think, the most cheering and exhilarating thing I have ever heard—the laughter of Ned M'Grane, the blacksmith of Balnagore.

No wonder, then, that we chimed in with Ned's more than usually vigorous "Ha, ha, ha-ah!" when Andy Murtagh was telling the smith about the "tallyvangin'," as he called it, that old Maire Lanigan, of the Red Bog, had given to Larry Boylan of our own townland, at the inquiry in Castletown, under the Old Age Pensions Act. The smith, as Andy proceeded with the story, had laid down the hammer on the anvil, had taken off his cap and wiped his perspiring brow with the back of his hand, and had laughed until we caught the contagion, and were obliged to join him, though as to the real cause of his merriment we were at the time ignorant.

"What else did she say?" he inquired, the tears which the laughter had called forth streaming down his dust-covered cheeks. "I'm sure Old Crusty was sweatin', an' divil mend him! What's the likes of him wantin' with a pension anyhow?"

"She said 'twas a ticket for the next world he ought to be lookin' for an' not an old age pension," said Andy, "an' when she had everyone laughin' at him she said somethin' like the way an old dog'd bark, an' went off with herself, an' whatever it was it made Larry twice as mad as all the tallyvangin' o' the tongue she gave him. He was ragin'."

"Ha, ha, ha-ah!" shouted Ned M'Grane again, and of course we had to join in, though we couldn't see that there was very much to laugh at in Andy's story after all.

When Ned had laughed in boisterous fashion for a minute or two he resumed his work, but every now and then he would give a short chuckle of delight to himself, as he made the sparks fly in showers from the burning iron upon which he was working.

"It's not the first time she set Old Crusty mad," he said at length, more to himself than to us, as he gave the finishing short, sharp taps to the article he was shaping, and cast it from him into the trough beside the anvil to cool. We were beginning to guess from this remark and from his behaviour while Andy was telling him of the encounter between the old pair at the inquiry, that there was a story in Ned's head which we had not yet heard, and as he proceeded to fill his pipe, after donning his coat, I ventured to say:

"Why, what did she do to him before to-day, Ned?"

"What didn't she do to him?" Ned asked, in return. "She made him the maddest man I ever saw in my life, an' as small as—as that bit o' tobacco. I don't wonder what she said an' she goin' off to-day left him vexed enough; it put him in mind o' when she made him a laughin'-stock for the whole county—that's what it did."

"When was that, Ned?" we all asked, in a breath. "Was it long ago?"

"'Twas long ago, sure enough, but not long enough to make Larry forget it," said Ned, as he teased the tobacco in the hollow of his hand, and then packed his pipe.

"Gi' me a match, some o' you, an' when I have a few draws o' this I'll tell you all about it."

Everybody fumbled in all his pockets for matches, and soon Ned had a supply sufficient to last for a week. He carefully lighted his pipe, took a few pulls, and then seated himself on a box in which there had been horse-shoe nails—the only easy-chair the forge contained.

"Let me see," he said, as he took the pipe from his mouth for a minute and gazed intently into the bowl, as if his inspiration lay therein. "It's nearer to thirty years ago than it is to twenty, an' the oldest o' you here was only toddlin' from the fire to the dresser an' back again. I was a lump of a gossoon at the time, an' I remember it as well as yesterday, an' good reason I have to remember it, because every man, woman, an' child in the country was talkin' about it, an' laughin' at Larry, as well they might.

"Maire Lanigan, you must know, was a bigger play-actor of a woman when she was younger than she is now. She was as tricky as a fox, an' no one could match her in every kind o' cleverness, though you'd think to look at her that she was only a gom. She an' old Charley the husband—God be good to him!—had that little farm o' the Lynches at that time, an' were middlin' well off, havin' neither chick nor child to bother about. They used to rear calves an' pigs an' sell them at good prices, but the dickens a one o' them ever Charley sold, because he was too shy an' quiet an' easy-goin' always. Maire is the one that could thrash out a bargain an' haggle an' wrangle an' dispute until she'd have the whole fair lookin' at her an' laughin' at her; an' there wasn't a jobber ever came into the fair o' Castletown but knew her as well as they knew a good beast or a bad one.

"Well, one May fair—the biggest fair that ever was in Castletown, the old people 'll tell you—Charley an' Maire had a fine lump of a calf to sell that they reared themselves from he was calved, an' they brought him out brave an' early in the mornin' to get rid of him, if they could come across a buyer. They weren't long in the fair, anyway, when who comes up to them but Mickey Flanagan—God rest him!—Jack the Jobber's father, an' begins to make the bargain with Maire. After a lot o' disputin' an' squabblin' an' dividin' o' this crown an' that half-crown an' a lot o' shoutin' on Maire's part, Mickey bought the calf, an' says he:

"'Meet me at Kennedy's, below near the railway, at three o'clock, an' I'll pay you, along with the rest.'

"'No, but you'll pay me this minute,' says Maire, 'or you'll not get the calf at all. I have my rent to pay at twelve o'clock, an' if you don't gi' me the money now I'll have to sell him to some one that will.'

"Mickey Flanagan saw that the calf was a good one, so he paid for it at once, because he was afraid that if he made any delay Maire might sell to some other jobber. When all was settled says he:

"'Drive him down an' put him into Kennedy's yard, an' tell the gossoon to keep an eye to him till I go down myself with a few more.'

"He forgot with the hurry he was in to mark the calf, an' away he went. Whatever divilment put it into Maire's head, instead o' bringin' the calf to Kennedy's yard what did she do only go stravagle it off to the far end o' the town, an' made Charley go with her an' say nothin'—the poor man was afraid of his life of her always—an', by the powers, if she didn't sell the calf again in less than half an hour to a jobber from the North of Ireland, who sent it off on the eleven o'clock train, an' paid Maire just the same amount she was after gettin' from Mickey Flanagan.

"Maire made away home as fast as she could make Charley step out, an' she laughin' to herself at the way she done Mickey Flanagan, an' she was just after puttin' the pan on the fire with a bit o' meat on it that she brought home, when who comes up to the door but my brave Mickey himself, an' he in a tearin' temper.

"'Where's my calf?' he shouted, as soon as he saw Maire in the middle o' the floor.

"'What do I know where he is?' answered Maire, just as loud, an' a lot sharper, 'didn't I sell him to you? Do you think I ought to stay in the town all day watchin' him for you, an' that poor unfortunate man there, that was up out of his bed at four o'clock this mornin', nearly fallin' out of his standin' with the hunger. Do you think I'm a fool, Mickey Flanagan? I sold you the calf, an' if you can't find him now, you needn't blame anyone but yourself.'

"'You're a darin' woman, that's what y'are,' says Mickey, the eyes nearly jumpin' out of his head with madness, 'an' if you don't tell me where the calf is, or give me back my money, I'll make you remember this day as long as you live.'

"'Faith, if you don't leave that, quick, an' quit your bargin',' cried Maire, as she caught hold o' the pan on the fire, 'I'll make you remember it longer than you live, because I'll give you a taste o' what the Old Boy 'll be givin' you yet for annoyin' an' tryin' to cheat an honest, decent woman! G'long! you cripplin' old rogue! or I'll scald the tongue in your head!'

"An' Mickey had to fly for his life, but he found out, some way or other, about the sellin' o' the calf a second time, an' what do you think but he sends a summons to Maire for the Quarter Sessions in Castletown, chargin' her with defraudin' him out o' the price o' the calf.

"Well, here's where Larry Boylan comes in. There wasn't many lawyers or solicitors in the country places at that time—an' sure, maybe we were as well off without them—but knowledgeable men used to give their opinion about points o' the law, an' used to settle disputes an' the like, an' any o' them that was graspin' or miserly used to charge somethin' for their advice—a couple o' rolls o' butter, or a sack o' praties, or maybe a few shillin's.

"Larry Boylan set up for bein' a knowledgeable man, not because he was extra wise, but because he wanted to make somethin' out of his poorer neighbours whenever he could get the chance.

"To Larry Maire went with the summons, an' asked what 'd be the best thing for her to do, an' if there was any chance of her beatin' Flanagan in the law.

"Larry considered, an' considered, an' pretended to be very wise, an' looked very solemn, an' asked Maire a lot o' questions that he knew the answer to long before that, an' at last says he:

"'Mrs. Lanigan,' says he, 'you're a woman I have a great respect for, an' your husband is one o' the decintest men in the parish, an' on that account,' says he, 'I'll bring all my long experience into the case an' do the best I can for you, an' it isn't for everyone I'd do it, an' it isn't in every case I'd give the advice I'm goin' to give now. But I want to say a word first. On account of it bein' a very delicate case, an' one that everybody is lookin' forward to, an' because my reputation 'll suffer if it goes against us, I'll have to charge you a fee, an' that fee 'll have to be a pound. Are you willin' to pay it, ma'am?' says Larry.

"'Well, indeed an' I am an' welcome, Mister Boylan,' says Maire, 'I'll give the pound, an' two pound, if you only mention it, as soon as the case is over. Make your mind easy on that point, Mister Boylan.'

"'Well, ma'am,' says Larry, 'the only way you can get the upper hand o' Mickey Flanagan is by makin' out you're a little bit gone in the head, an' if you do what I tell you there isn't a judge or a jury or a lawyer in Ireland can prove that you're responsible for the price o' the calf, or for anythin' that took place the day o' the fair.'

"'Musha, more power to you, Mister Boylan,' says Maire.

"'What I want you to do is this,' says Larry; 'when the court day comes just let your hair hang down about your face an' shoulders, an' wear your cloak upside down on you, an' be laughin' an' puttin' out your tongue at everyone you meet. An' when you go into the court, no matter who asks you a question, just laugh and put out your tongue, an' say "Bow-wow" like a dog. Will you do that?' says he.

"'Indeed, an' I will, Mister Boylan,' says Maire, as thankful as you please. 'Wait till you see but I'll do it better than you expect. May God bless you an' prosper you, an' lengthen your days; you're the clever, knowledgeable man!'

"An' off she went in the best o' humour, an' she blessin' Larry all the time.

"Well, at any rate the Quarter Sessions came at long last, an' there was hardly a man, woman, or child in the country but was in the town that day, watchin' an' waitin' for the case against Maire Lanigan, an' when the time for the case came on the courthouse was packed with people. Mickey Flanagan had a lawyer down from Dublin, an' everyone was sure he'd win the case, because Maire had no one at all to speak for her.

"When the case was brought on, an' when Maire stepped up to be examined, you'd think 'twas a circus or somethin' was in the courthouse with the way the people laughed, an' the old judge himself had to laugh, too, when he saw the get-up of her. Everyone was laughin' only Mickey Flanagan an' his lawyer.

"Maire's old grey, greasy-lookin' hair was all hangin' down about her face, an' there was little red an' yalla ribbons tied on it here an' there, like what you'd see on girshas o' ten or twelve; an' her cloak was turned inside out an' she was wearin' it upside down, with the tail of it round her shoulders an' the hood streelin' at her heels; an' there she was, grinnin' an' caperin', an' puttin' out her tongue at everyone. I never saw anythin' like her in my life, an' I laughed after the judge commanded silence. I thought he'd tell some one to put me out.

"The lawyer from Dublin got up to question Maire, an' he fixed his specs on him, an' frowned an' put on a grand air, an' says he:

"'Are you the person who sold a calf to this man, my client, Michael Flanagan?'

"Maire grinned at him, an' put out her tongue, an' all the answer she gave him was:

"'Bow-wow!'

"You could hear the laughin' o' the people all over the town, but the judge said in a loud voice—though I think he was laughin' to himself—that he'd clear out the court if there was any more noise, an' the lawyer put a blacker frown on him, an' says he:

"'Remember, madam,' says he, 'that you're in her Majesty's Court o' Justice, an' give me a straightforward, honest answer, or learn the consequences. Did you, or did you not, sell a calf to this man?'

"'Bow-wow,' says Maire again, an' she puttin' out her tongue at him, an' you'd think she didn't know a word he was sayin'. Everyone laughed again, except Mickey an' his lawyer, an' the judge gave a pull to his wig an' snuffled, an' says he:

"'This woman is a fool! Put her down,' says he; 'I dismiss the case. It's only makin' a humbug o' the court.'

"'She has it,' says Larry Boylan to my father—God rest him!—an' out we all went to the street after Maire, an' sure everyone in the whole place was round her, laughin' an' talkin' an' goin' on.

"Larry wanted to show himself off as the great man o' the day, an' says he, goin' over an' shakin' Maire's hand:

"'You done it the best I ever saw! There's not the beatin' o' you on Ireland's ground. Have you the pound, Mrs. Lanigan?' says he, in a lower tone o' voice, but plenty of us heard him all the same.

"Maire shook his hand, an' Larry was feelin' proud of himself, when she just looked him straight in the face, an' grinned like a monkey an' put out her tongue down to her chin, an' says she, at the top of her voice:

"'Bow-wow, Larry Boylan! Bow-wow!'

"An' with that she made a run through the crowd, an' away home with her, an' Charley after her as fast as he could trot, an' the poor man ashamed of his life. If ever any man got laughed at that man was Larry Boylan. He couldn't go out anywhere, to fair or market or meetin' for long an' long after, but every gossoon in the country'd shout 'Bow-wow' at him till they'd have him ragin'. An' that's what old Maire said to him to-day, that Andy Murtagh was tellin' us about, an' it's thinkin' o' the law case made Larry so mad."

And as Ned M'Grane closed the door of the forge after we had left we heard him laugh softly to himself.