“Play with you! Why what has a poor old man like you to play for?”
“I have one hundred pieces of gold in this leathern purse,” replied the old man.
“You may as well play with him,” said the story-teller’s wife; “and perhaps you’ll have something to tell the king in the evening.”
A smooth stone was placed between them, and upon it they cast their throws.
It was but a little while and the story-teller lost every penny of his money.
“Much good may it do you, friend,” said he. “What better hap could I look for, fool that I am!”
“Will you play again?” asked the old man.
“Don’t be talking, man: you have all my money.”
“Haven’t you chariot and horses and hounds?”
“Well, what of them!”
“I’ll stake all the money I have against thine.”
“Nonsense, man! Do you think for all the money in Ireland, I’d run the risk of seeing my lady tramp home on foot?”
“Maybe you’d win,” said the bocough.
“Maybe I wouldn’t,” said the story-teller.
“Play with him, husband,” said his wife. “I don’t mind walking, if you do, love.”
“I never refused you before,” said the story-teller, “and I won’t do so now.”
Down he sat again, and in one throw lost houses, hounds, and chariot.
“Will you play again?” asked the beggar.
“Are you making game of me, man; what else have I to stake?”
“I’ll stake all my winnings against your wife,” said the old man.
The story-teller turned away in silence, but his wife stopped him.
“Accept his offer,” said she. “This is the third time, and who knows what luck you may have? You’ll surely win now.”
They played again, and the story-teller lost. No sooner had he done so, than to his sorrow and surprise, his wife went and sat down near the ugly old beggar.
“Is that the way you’re leaving me?” said the story-teller.
“Sure I was won,” said she. “You would not cheat the poor man, would you?”
“Have you any more to stake?” asked the old man.
“You know very well I have not,” replied the story-teller.
“I’ll stake the whole now, wife and all, against your own self," said the old man.
Again they played, and again the story-teller lost.
“Well! here I am, and what do you want with me?”
“I’ll soon let you know,” said the old man, and he took from his pocket a long cord and a wand.
“Now,” said he to the story-teller, “what kind of animal would you rather be, a deer, a fox, or a hare? You have your choice now, but you may not have it later.”
To make a long story short, the story-teller made his choice of a hare; the old man threw the cord round him, struck him with the wand, and lo! a long-eared, frisking hare was skipping and jumping on the green.
But it wasn’t for long; who but his wife called the hounds, and set them on him. The hare fled, the dogs followed. Round the field ran a high wall, so that run as he might, he couldn’t get out, and mightily diverted were beggar and lady to see him twist and double.
In vain did he take refuge with his wife, she kicked him back again to the hounds, until at length the beggar stopped the hounds, and with a stroke of the wand, panting and breathless, the story-teller stood before them again.
“And how did you like the sport?” said the beggar.
“It might be sport to others,” replied the story-teller looking at his wife, “for my part I could well put up with the loss of it.”
“Would it be asking too much,” he went on to the beggar, “to know who you are at all, or where you come from, or why you take a pleasure in plaguing a poor old man like me?”
“Oh!” replied the stranger, “I’m an odd kind of good-for-little fellow, one day poor, another day rich, but if you wish to know more about me or my habits, come with me and perhaps I may show you more than you would make out if you went alone.”
“I’m not my own master to go or stay,” said the story-teller, with a sigh.
The stranger put one hand into his wallet and drew out of it before their eyes a well-looking middle-aged man, to whom he spoke as follows:
“By all you heard and saw since I put you into my wallet, take charge of this lady and of the carriage and horses, and have them ready for me whenever I want them.”
Scarcely had he said these words when all vanished, and the story-teller found himself at the Foxes’ Ford, near the castle of Red Hugh O’Donnell. He could see all but none could see him.
O’Donnell was in his hall, and heaviness of flesh and weariness of spirit were upon him.
“Go out,” said he to his doorkeeper, “and see who or what may be coming.”
The doorkeeper went, and what he saw was a lank, grey beggarman; half his sword bared behind his haunch, his two shoes full of cold road-a-wayish water sousing about him, the tips of his two ears out through his old hat, his two shoulders out through his scant tattered cloak, and in his hand a green wand of holly.
“Save you, O’Donnell,” said the lank grey beggarman.
“And you likewise,” said O’Donnell. “Whence come you, and what is your craft?”
“It’s the great traveller you are,” said O’Donnell.
“Maybe you’ve learnt something on the road.”
“I am a juggler,” said the lank grey beggarman, “and for five pieces of silver you shall see a trick of mine.”
“You shall have them,” said O’Donnell; and the lank grey beggarman took three small straws and placed them in his hand.
“The middle one,” said he, “I’ll blow away; the other two I’ll leave.”
“Thou canst not do it,” said one and all.
But the lank grey beggarman put a finger on either outside straw and, whiff, away he blew the middle one.
“’Tis a good trick,” said O’Donnell; and he paid him his five pieces of silver.
“For half the money,” said one of the chief’s lads, “I’ll do the same trick.”
“Take him at his word, O’Donnell.”
The lad put the three straws on his hand, and a finger on either outside straw and he blew; and what happened but that the fist was blown away with the straw.
“Thou art sore, and thou wilt be sorer,” said O’Donnell.
“Six more pieces, O’Donnell, and I’ll do another trick for thee," said the lank grey beggarman.
“Six shalt thou have.”
“Seest thou my two ears! One I’ll move but not t’other.”
“’Tis easy to see them, they’re big enough, but thou canst never move one ear and not the two together.”
The lank grey beggarman put his hand to his ear, and he gave it a pull.
O’Donnell laughed and paid him the six pieces.
“Call that a trick,” said the fistless lad, “any one can do that," and so saying, he put up his hand, pulled his ear, and what happened was that he pulled away ear and head.
“Sore thou art; and sorer thou’lt be,” said O’Donnell.
“Well, O’Donnell,” said the lank grey beggarman, “strange are the tricks I’ve shown thee, but I’ll show thee a stranger one yet for the same money.”
“Thou hast my word for it,” said O’Donnell.
With that the lank grey beggarman took a bag from under his armpit, and from out the bag a ball of silk, and he unwound the ball and he flung it slantwise up into the clear blue heavens, and it became a ladder; then he took a hare and placed it upon the thread, and up it ran; again he took out a red-eared hound, and it swiftly ran up after the hare.
“Now,” said the lank grey beggarman; “has any one a mind to run after the dog and on the course?”
“I will,” said a lad of O’Donnell’s.
“Up with you then,” said the juggler; “but I warn you if you let my hare be killed I’ll cut off your head when you come down.”
The lad ran up the thread and all three soon disappeared. After looking up for a long time, the lank grey beggarman said: “I’m afraid the hound is eating the hare, and that our friend has fallen asleep.”