The coaxing of a story from Ned M'Grane, the blacksmith, was sometimes the easiest matter in the world, and sometimes a task in the accomplishing of which all the tact and diplomacy of a Government Ambassador would be absolutely essential. It all depended on the humour he was in at the time. If things had gone well with him during the day; if he hadn't been disappointed in getting coal from the town or if nobody had come to ask him in an aggrieved tone, "Why the blazes aren't you doin' them wheels for me?" or if nobody had told him that another penny in the pound had been added to the taxation of Ireland or that some Englishman had said the Irish were only a pack of savages until the English, out of pure charity, came over and civilised them. If none of these things occurred to rile Ned M'Grane, we had no difficulty whatever in getting a story from him whenever we went to the forge; and that was almost every evening throughout the winter months, and sometimes in the summer, too, when the ground was too wet for the hurling.

'Twas easy to know when he was in bad humour. He hardly seemed to hear our conversation at all, but worked away in silence, broken now and then by short and vigorous comments on the matter that had vexed him during the day, such as "Who the dickens cares about him or his wheels? I'd be rich if I was dependin' on his custom—heh!" or "What'll they do next, I wonder? Make us pay rates for every time we say our prayers?—the pack o' robbers. I wish I had some o' their heads under this!" And then there would be a crashing blow on the anvil that shook the forge and awakened memories of the Blacksmith of Limerick who crushed the heads of the Williamites with his sledge, long ago. On such occasions we never attempted to engage Ned in conversation until his work for the day was finished, and the pipe and tobacco were called into requisition. Even then, if we saw by his manner or his countenance that a dark memory of the matters that had disturbed him during the day remained in his mind, we wisely refrained from beating about the bush for a story.

Ned's dark moods, however, were rare, and his grand, hearty laughter and sparkling wit and delightful stories, when in his usual form, more than compensated for them, and never allowed us to adversely criticise them, no matter how dark or fierce they might be; and then we, young fellows, loved Ned M'Grane as devotedly and as warmly as he loved us.

One evening in the springtime we were gathered as usual in the forge, after a good, long day's work in the fields, and Ned was very busy with plough accessories and harrow pins and other farming implements, but he was in the best of humour all the same. He joked some of us about getting married, sang snatches of songs in his big, rich voice, and laughed at some of the news we had brought him with the gay vivacity of a boy. There wasn't a subject under the sun but was debated in the forge, and Ned's witticisms remained in all our minds long after the matters debated had been forgotten.

"I wonder how many'll take the advice Father Martin gave last Sunday about the killin' o' the pigs," said Matty Reilly, as he fiddled with a lot of horse-shoe nails in a box.

"It's all very fine to be talkin'," said Jim Cassidy, "but if the people kill their own pigs, what are they goin' to pay the rent with?"

"Didn't he tell them what they could do it with?" said Jack Dunne, as he cleared the stem of his pipe with a very fine piece of wire which Ned always kept by him for that purpose; "didn't he tell them that they could pay the rent with the money they give to the shopkeepers for bad American bacon that's pisinin' their blood an' that there's no nourishment in? An' sure he said the truth. You might as well be eatin' roasted beech-leaves as some o' the bacon you'd get in shops. The divil another bit of it'll come into our house, if we were never to pay the rent."

"If you saw Peadar Byrne," said Bartle Gormley, from a corner, "when Father Martin was talkin' about the killin' o' the pigs, an' the savin' o' the money. He could only catch an odd word, an' he had the bothered ear cocked in a way that I never saw it at the readin' o' the Gospel."

"Maybe," said Ned, with a comical look, "maybe he thought there was pigs goin' for nothin', an' that he'd miss one if he didn't listen."

The discussion ended in a laugh, as all discussions usually did when Ned M'Grane had spoken, and every man started to light his pipe. Ned worked on in silence for a while, and after a long spell, during which there came no remark from him, he said, in careless fashion:

"I wonder was Jimmy Malone—Jimmy the Thrick—listenin' to Father Martin talkin' about the bacon?"

"He was then," said Bartle Gormley, "because I saw him leanin' over the seat down near the door an' whisperin' somethin' to Andy Cregan, an' whatever it was the two o' them was laughin' over it when they came out on the road."

"I know what he was whisperin' about," said Ned, "an' so well he might laugh, because the bacon he used to get above twenty years ago was better an' cheaper than ever he ate since. He wouldn't get anyone simple enough now to give him bacon for nothin'."

"An' how did he get it for nothin' that time, Ned?" asked Bartle, and as he spoke all other conversation was suspended, and we gathered in close to the anvil, apparently careless, but every mother's son of us eager as could be for the story which we knew from experience lay at the back of Ned's remark on Jimmy Malone's behaviour.

"Do you remember Neddy an' Phil M'Govern that died within a week of each other, just this time two years?" asked Ned.

Of course we had all known the two old brothers and their eccentric ways, and had often peeped in at them as they argued by the fire, and we told Ned as much.

"Well, they were just as odd an' as comical in their ways when they were close on fifty years of age as when eighty was drawin' near them, an' if I could only remember them, I know as many stories about Neddy an' Phil as would keep me talkin' for a whole week without stoppin'. They were the queerest couple ever walked in shoe leather or bare feet—may God be good to them this night. At the time I'm goin' to tell you about they didn't live together, as they did when you knew them. Phil lived with an old uncle o' his beyond at Hogan's well, where you'll see the walls o' the house standin' still, and Neddy lived by himself in the house on the hill there above, where they died, an' where Tom M'Dermott, their sister's son, is livin' now. Neither one nor th' other o' them ever got married, because I suppose no girl 'd have them (you needn't laugh)—some people 'd say because they'd begrudge spendin' any money on the weddin', but I don't believe that, as hard as they were—and the way they had o' livin' was as comical as ever you knew. Jimmy the Thrick, to give him the name he was best known by in his young days, lived over there on the hill, not far away from Neddy—that was, of course, before he married into the wife's place—an' he'd tell you stones about Neddy's housekeepin' that'd make you laugh if you had the toothache. An' the best o' them all is the story that Jimmy himself had most to do with.

"Jimmy, you must know, was a terrible playboy at that time an' nobody was safe from his tricks. He couldn't rest at night unless he was after makin' a fool o' somebody, or after playin' some trick durin' the day. He was never easy, mornin', noon or night.

"The people long ago used to kill their own pigs, an' you'd never see backs of American bacon hangin' up in country houses like you do now, an' signs on it, everyone was twice as healthy. 'Twas the talk about what Father Martin said last Sunday that put this story about Neddy an' Phil an' Jimmy into my head. On account of only the two o' them an' the old uncle bein' in it, they used only kill one pig between them every year an' divide it. Neddy'd kill one this year, an' send the half of it over to Phil an' the uncle, an' whatever he had too much after that he'd give to the sister that was married in Knockbride; then the next year Phil 'd kill a pig an' send the half of it to Neddy, an' so on.

"This year, anyway, that I'm talkin' about, it happened that it was Neddy's turn to kill the pig, an' what do you think but one o' the shopkeepers in Castletown said to him that if he was thinkin' o' killin' a pig that year an' didn't want it all, that he had a customer that wanted a piece o' home-cured bacon, an' would give the highest price for it. Neddy wasn't very rich, an' he thought to himself when he came home that if he could get out o' the obligation o' givin' half the pig to Phil, he'd be all right. He could make a couple o' pound for himself an' have enough o' bacon for the year as well. What was he to do at all? The only thing he could think of was to pretend to sell it along with the other pig at the fair that was near at hand. But then Phil 'd be at the fair an' helpin' to make the bargain, an' he'd see that only one o' the pigs was sold. He couldn't hit on a plan of any kind that'd be good enough, an' he was goin' to give up in despair when who comes in but my brave Jimmy Malone—'twas evenin' time—to have a smoke an' to warm his shins at Neddy's fire.

"Neddy knew that Jimmy was never at a loss for a plan for anythin' an' he ups an' tells him the story o' the pig an' the terrible puzzle he was in. Jimmy listened with great attention, an' was very simple an' solemn-lookin', but the divilment came into his head, an' says he to Neddy, when he heard the whole story:

"'It'd be a mortial shame, Neddy,' says he, 'for you to lose the couple o' pound an' you wantin' it so badly, an' especially when you say that Phil's two pigs is better nor your own an' that he didn't divide fair with you last year. It'd be a terrible shame, Neddy, an' I'm goin' to get you out o' the hobble or know for what. I'll just tell you in a few words the best thing for you to do. Kill the pig unknownst to Phil, an' scrape it, an' clean it out, an' then hang it up at the gable end o' the house, an' leave it there when you're goin' to bed. Then the first thing in the mornin' get up before anyone else thinks o' risin' an' bring in the pig and salt it, an' put it above in the room, an' cover it as much as you can; an' then go round the whole townlan' from this to Larry Boylan's beyond, an' clap your hands an' cry an' moan an' be in a terrible state, an' tell everybody that someone took your pig down from the gable—an' sure that'll be no lie for you—an' no matter what Phil or your uncle or anyone else says, keep on lamentin' and cryin' an' sayin' that your pig is gone from the gable, an' that poor Phil 'll have to be eatin' American bacon this year; an' if that doesn't work all right an' leave your pig with you, my name is not Jimmy Malone.'

"Neddy kep' showerin' blessin's down on top o' Jimmy's head for half-an-hour, an' sayin' he was the cleverest man in Ireland, an' that he ought to be a lawyer, an' there was the boyo, drinkin' it all in as solemn as you please, an' assurin' Neddy that he'd do anythin' for a good neighbour. At last he got up to go home an' the word he said to Neddy an' he goin' out on the door was: 'Remember, Neddy, no matter what anyone says to you keep on cryin' and sayin' that the pig is gone. Don't forget that. In any case, I'll be down again to remind you of it.'

"Neddy said he wouldn't forget anythin', an' away went Jimmy the Thrick up to his own house, an' he laughin' to himself at the way he was goin' to hoax old Neddy M'Govern.

"Phil was away at the bog beyond for the turf the next day—the old uncle never used to stir out o' the house, and along with that he was bothered—an' my brave Neddy sent up for Jimmy Malone an' for Tom Molloy, the herd that was in Rowan's, an' Tom killed the pig, an' went off, an' then Neddy an' Jimmy cleaned it out, an' Jimmy went home, after goin' over the instructions again to Neddy, an' puttin' him on his guard to keep on cryin' the pig, no matter what any man, woman or child in the townland'd say to him.

"About ten o'clock that night—the people used to go to bed early them times—Neddy put a big holdfast the length o' your arm into the gable end o' the house, and tied the pig's hind crubeens together, an' histed it on his back—there wasn't a stronger man in the country than Neddy—an' brought it out an' hung it there, with its snout just tippin' the ground, an' back he goes an' into bed with him, leavin' the pig hangin' there for any dog that might have a fancy for fresh bacon.

"The dogs didn't get much of a chance, though, because Neddy wasn't half-an-hour in bed when down comes Jimmy the Thrick from his own house an' he creepin' along the same as if he didn't want to waken the birds, an' when he came to the gable-end o' Neddy's house he just rubbed down the pig with his hands to see if it was dry enough, an' then got in under it, an' histed it on his back, an' away with him up the path along the hedge to his own house an' he staggerin' under the weight o' the pig.

"He stayed up all that night cuttin' the bacon an' saltin' it—he was the best hand in the whole country at doin' up a pig—an' when he had it all cut he packed it in a big box that he had for turf in a corner o' the kitchen, an' then he went to bed an' slept like a top.

"The daylight was only in it when up gets Neddy an' out he goes to fetch in the pig, but it wasn't an easy job to do, because there was no pig at the gable. He looked all round the place, thinkin' maybe somebody took it down for a joke; but it was nowhere to be seen, an' Neddy ran like a madman over to Phil's, an' nothin' only his shirt an' trousers on him, an' wakened him up, an' accused him of takin' the pig. Phil got into a tearin' rage for he sayin' that at all, an' there was the two o' them into it at five o'clock in the mornin', bargin' away like two old women, an' callin' each other all the names they could think of. At last, Phil an' the uncle hunted Neddy, an' he went round all the neighbours clappin' his hands an' tellin' about some daylight robber stealin' his darlin' pig in the middle o' the night; an' everyone thought Neddy M'Govern was after goin' cracked entirely, an' they gave him no satisfaction at all, only told him to go home an' go to bed or to put the rest of his clothes on him, an' sorra consolation and sorra trace o' the pig Neddy could get, high up or low down; and back he comes to his own house, an' searched round twice as sharp as before in every hole an' corner, but dickens a sight or light o' the pig he could see anywhere.

"Then he thought o' Jimmy Malone, an' that maybe Jimmy could help him, an' away he went up to Jimmy's house an' he like a man out of his mind. Jimmy saw him comin', but he never pretended he was up out o' bed at all, and when Neddy began to knock at the door an' kick it, Jimmy shouted from the room like as if he was only wakenin' out of his sleep:

"'Who's that?'

"'It's me, Jimmy; I want you. Get up!'

"Jimmy put his head out o' the window.

"'Oh, is it you, Neddy?' says he, as if he wasn't expectin' Neddy at all. 'Well, did that work all right?' says he, rubbin' his eyes and yawnin'.

"'The pig is gone, Jimmy! Some robber stole him last night!'

"''Gorra, Neddy, you're a topper! That's the very way I wanted you to say it. What did Phil say, or did you go to him yet?'

"'Phil the divil, man!' shouted Neddy. 'The pig was stole last night, I tell you, an' I can't get sight or light of it.'

"'Good, Neddy, good! There's not an actor in Dublin could do it better than that. Stick at it, my boyo, an' there's not a man in the townland but 'll believe you lost the pig!'

"'Jimmy, will you listen to me, or are you gone mad like the rest o' them? I'm tellin' no lie at all. The pig wasn't there when I came out this mornin', an' tale or tidin's of it I can't find anywhere. What am I to do at all, at all?'

"''Gorra, Neddy, that's grand! An' only I'm in my shirt I'd go out an' clap you on the back. If you could only see your face this minute, you'd nearly believe yourself that the pig is gone. You lost it that didn't go with a circus when you were young, Neddy; you'd be a rich man to-day. Only go round the townland an' your face like that, an' the divil a bit o' the pig Phil 'll ever taste!'

"Jimmy kept on like that, an' Neddy kept fumin' an' pleadin' an' cursin' and lamentin' outside in the yard until he saw it was no use to stay there any longer, an' home he went again, tearin' an' swearin' an' he nearly crazy.

"In a few hours after that, Jimmy the lad strolled down as unconcerned as you please, an' there was Neddy with his Sunday clothes on him an' he just ready for a journey.

"'Where are you goin', Neddy?' says he, the same as if he got a terrible surprise.

"'I'm goin' over to Castletown to tell the peelers, an' to get them to look for the thief that stole my pig!' says Neddy, very uncivil like, because he wasn't at all thankful to Jimmy for his plan, when he saw the way it turned out.

"'Ah, that's goin' too far with it, Neddy,' says the Thrick. 'Doesn't Phil believe you yet about the stealin' o' the pig—the plan we made up? You'll only get found out if you go as far as tellin' the peelers.'

"'But, tundher an' ouns, man,' shouted poor Neddy, 'is there any use in tellin' you the pig was stole? See is he in the house, sure, if you don't believe me!'

"Jimmy looked round the house an' he winkin' at Neddy all the time, as much as to say, 'You're the king o' tricks, Neddy,' but at long last he was convinced that Neddy did lose the pig, an' he had great sympathy for him, by the way, an' 'twas no wonder any man to be vexed over such a dirty, mean deed, an' if he had the thief there he'd do this, that an' th'other to him as sure as his name was Jimmy Malone.

"'An' is it any wonder I'm goin' for the peelers, Jimmy?' says Neddy to him.

"'Not a bit o' wonder in the world, Neddy; but I'd advise you not to go.'

"'An why wouldn't I go, man? How do you think I'm goin' to catch the robber if I don't go?'

"'You oughtn't to go for the peelers,' says Jimmy, an' he lookin' about him an' speakin' very low, 'because I think I know who took the pig!'

"'Who?' says Neddy. 'Who, Jimmy?'

"'Sh!' says Jimmy, 'don't talk that loud. I'm thinkin' 'twas the good people—the fairies. Did you ever do anythin' to them—anythin' to vex them?'

"'Never!' says Neddy, 'that I know of!'

"'Are you sure, now?' says Jimmy, 'because they never do anythin' to anyone that doesn't offend them. Did you cut the grass round the lone bush in the Fort Field above last summer, an' you mowin' the meadow?'

"'I did, sure enough!' says Neddy; 'but I didn't touch the tree.'

"'Aye, but you cut the grass, Neddy, an' they claim the grass that grows round every lone bush in the land. It's the fairies that took the pig, Neddy, but that was only to warn you, an' I'm sure they'll give it back. Instead o' goin' for the peelers or anyone else, wait until to-morrow night—it's May Eve—at twelve o'clock, an' go up to the fort an' walk round the lone bush three times, an' you'll be sure to hear somethin' about the bacon. But tell no one, an' let no one see you goin' or you're done for. An' if the fairies speak to you, answer them very respectful, an' do whatever they tell you an' you'll be all right. It's only twice in the year they'd speak to any livin' person—at May Eve an' at Hollantide—an' you ought to make the most of your chance, considerin' that the fort is on your own land.'

"''Gorra, I'll chance it, anyway, Jimmy!' says Neddy, and down he sits himself at the fire, an' says no more about the peelers or the thief.

"Well, to make a long story short, Neddy was at the fort the next night at a quarter to twelve. As soon as Jimmy saw him goin'—for he was watchin' him—he lifts the box o' bacon on to a wheelbarrow—he was after greasin' the axle for twenty minutes so that it wouldn't screech—an' down he goes with it along the path an' left it where he got it, at the gable-end o' Neddy's house, an' then he left the barrow back an' stole away up along the hedges till he was standin' within half a perch o' Neddy, only that the big hedge was between them.

"When Neddy thought it was twelve o'clock he started an' walked three times round the lone bush, an' then he stopped an' listened an' he afraid of his life to look one side or th' other of him.

"'Neddy M'Govern!' says a queer, strange voice from the far side o' the hedge, an' when Neddy heard it he shivered from head to foot.

"'Yes, your Majesty,' says Neddy.

"'We're displeased with you, Neddy M'Govern,' says the voice, an' Neddy thought it was out o' the air it came this time, but he was afraid to look up; 'we're displeased with you, because last summer you cut the grass round this bush that's our property, an' for that reason we confiscated your pig. Are you sorry for cuttin' the grass, Neddy M'Govern?'

"'I am, indeed, your Majesty!' says Neddy, an' his voice shakin'.

"'Will you promise never to cut it again, Neddy M'Govern, an' will you give us your solemn word of honour to carry out all the commands an' conditions we're pleased to impose on you now?'

"'I will, your Majesty!' says Neddy, 'I'll do anything your Majesty wants.'

"'Very well, Neddy M'Govern, we'll give you back your pig on three conditions. You're to divide the bacon as usual with your brother, Phil!'

"'Yes, your Majesty.'

"'There's a decent, honest, respectable man livin' near you, called James Malone. You're to give him the biggest an' best ham off this pig an' off every pig you kill in future!'

"'Yes, your Majesty.'

"'An' you're never to open your lips to anybody about your visit here to-night, nor to tell livin' man or mortal anythin' we're after sayin' to you.'

"'No, your Majesty.'

"'That'll do, Neddy M'Govern. Now, walk round that bush three times again, an' then straight across to the gap an' down the boreen to your own house, an' look neither up in the air, nor behind you, nor to either side o' you, an' when you go home you'll find your pig in the place it was when we confiscated it. It's cut an' salted an' packed, an' will be fit for use in ten days an' ten nights. Remember your promises, Neddy M'Govern!'

"'Yes, your Majesty,' says Neddy again, an' then he done what he was told, an' when he went back there was the bacon at the gable-end o' the house where 'his Majesty,' Jimmy the Thrick, was after leavin' it. Neddy, of course, was delighted, an' he shared the bacon with Phil, an' gave the biggest ham to Jimmy—there was one ham cut very big—an' from that until he died there wasn't a pig he killed but Jimmy got a ham off it, an' no one knew anythin' about it until Jimmy himself told Father Martin about it the day o' Neddy's funeral, an' I dunno how they settled the matter between them. An' that's the whole story about Jimmy Malone an' the bacon."