The Crock of Gold by James Stephens (black female authors TXT) 📗

“I thought,” said another man, “that I heard something moving in the hedge at the side of the road.”

“That’s what I heard,” said the sergeant. “Maybe it was a weasel. I wish to the devil that we were out of this place where you can’t see as much as your own nose. Now did you hear it, Shawn?”

“I did so,” said Shawn; “there’s some one in the hedge, for a weasel would make a different kind of a noise if it made any at all.”

“Keep together, men,” said the sergeant, “and march on; if there’s anybody about they’ve no business with us.”

He had scarcely spoken when there came a sudden pattering of feet, and immediately the four men were surrounded and were being struck at on every side with sticks and hands and feet.

“Draw your batons,” the sergeant roared; “keep a good grip of that man, Shawn.”

“I will so,” said Shawn.

“Stand round him, you other men, and hit anything that comes near you.”

There was no sound of voices from the assailants, only a rapid scuffle of feet, the whistle of sticks as they swung through the air or slapped smartly against a body or clashed upon each other, and the quick breathing of many people; but from the four policemen there came noise and to spare as they struck wildly on every side, cursing the darkness and their opposers with fierce enthusiasm.

“Let out,” cried Shawn suddenly. “Let out or I’ll smash your nut for you. There’s some one pulling at the prisoner, and I’ve dropped my baton.”

The truncheons of the policemen had been so ferociously exercised that their antagonists departed as swiftly and as mysteriously as they came. It was just two minutes of frantic, aimless conflict, and then the silent night was round them again, without any sound but the slow creaking of branches, the swish of leaves as they swung and poised, and the quiet croon of the wind along the road.

“Come on, men,” said the sergeant, “we’d better be getting out of this place as quick as we can. Are any of ye hurted?”

“I’ve got one of the enemy,” said Shawn, panting.

“You’ve got what?” said the sergeant.

“I’ve got one of them, and he is wriggling like an eel on a pan.”

“Hold him tight,” said the sergeant excitedly.

“I will so,” said Shawn. “It’s a little one by the feel of it. If one of ye would hold the prisoner, I’d get a better grip on this one. Aren’t they dangerous villains now?”

Another man took hold of the Philosopher’s arm, and Shawn got both hands on his captive.

“Keep quiet, I’m telling you,” said he, “or I’ll throttle you, I will so. Faith, it seems like a little boy by the feel of it!”

“A little boy!” said the sergeant.

“Yes, he doesn’t reach up to my waist.”

“It must be the young brat from the cottage that set the dogs on us, the one that loves beasts. Now then, boy, what do you mean by this kind of thing? You’ll find yourself in gaol for this, my young buck-o. Who was with you, eh? Tell me that now?” and the sergeant bent forward.

“Hold up your head, sonny, and talk to the sergeant,” said Shawn. “Oh!” he roared, and suddenly he made a little rush forward. “I’ve got him,” he gasped; “he nearly got away. It isn’t a boy at all, sergeant; there’s whiskers on it!”

“What do you say?” said the sergeant.

“I put my hand under its chin and there’s whiskers on it. I nearly let him out with the surprise, I did so.”

“Try again,” said the sergeant in a low voice; “you are making a mistake.”

“I don’t like touching them,” said Shawn. “It’s a soft whisker like a billy-goat’s. Maybe you’d try yourself, sergeant, for I tell you I’m frightened of it.”

“Hold him over here,” said the sergeant, “and keep a good grip of him.”

“I’ll do that,” said Shawn, and he hauled some reluctant object towards his superior.

The sergeant put out his hand and touched a head.

“It’s only a boy’s size to be sure,” said he, then he slid his hand down the face and withdrew it quickly.

“There are whiskers on it,” said he soberly. “What the devil can it be? I never met whiskers so near the ground before. Maybe they are false ones, and it’s just the boy yonder trying to disguise himself.” He put out his hand again with an effort, felt his way to the chin, and tugged.

Instantly there came a yell, so loud, so sudden, that every man of them jumped in a panic.

“They are real whiskers,” said the sergeant with a sigh. “I wish I knew what it is. His voice is big enough for two men, and that’s a fact. Have you got another match on you?”

“I have two more in my waistcoat pocket,” said one of the men.

“Give me one of them,” said the sergeant; “I’ll strike it myself.”

He groped about until he found the hand with the match.

“Be sure and hold him tight, Shawn, the way we can have a good look at him, for this is like to be a queer miracle of a thing.”

“I’m holding him by the two arms,” said Shawn, “he can’t stir anything but his head, and I’ve got my chest on that.”

The sergeant struck the match, shading it for a moment with his hand, then he turned it on their new prisoner.

They saw a little man dressed in tight green clothes; he had a broad pale face with staring eyes, and there was a thin fringe of grey whisker under his chin—then the match went out.

“It’s a Leprecaun,” said the sergeant.

The men were silent for a full couple of minutes-at last Shawn spoke.

“Do you tell me so?” said he in a musing voice; “that’s a queer miracle altogether.”

“I do,” said the sergeant. “Doesn’t it stand to reason that it can’t be anything else? You saw it yourself.”

Shawn plumped down on his knees before his captive.

“Tell me where the money is?” he hissed. “Tell me where the money is or I’ll twist your neck off.”

The other men also gathered eagerly around, shouting threats and commands at the Leprecaun.

“Hold your whist,” said Shawn fiercely to them. “He can’t answer the lot