The Crock of Gold by James Stephens (black female authors TXT) 📗
- Author: James Stephens
Book online «The Crock of Gold by James Stephens (black female authors TXT) 📗». Author James Stephens
“If you don’t tell me where the money is at once I’ll kill you, I will so.”
“I haven’t got any money at all, sir,” said the Leprecaun.
“None of your lies,” roared Shawn. “Tell the truth now or it’ll be worse for you.”
“I haven’t got any money,” said the Leprecaun, “for Meehawl MacMurrachu of the Hill stole our crock a while back, and he buried it under a thorn bush. I can bring you to the place if you don’t believe me.”
“Very good,” said Shawn. “Come on with me now, and I’ll clout you if you as much as wriggle; do you mind me?”
“What would I wriggle for?” said the Leprecaun: “sure I like being with you.”
Hereupon the sergeant roared at the top of his voice.
“Attention,” said he, and the men leaped to position like automata.
“What is it you are going to do with your prisoner, Shawn?” said he sarcastically. “Don’t you think we’ve had enough tramping of these roads for one night, now? Bring up that Leprecaun to the barracks or it’ll be the worse for you—do you hear me talking to you?”
“But the gold, sergeant,” said Shawn sulkily.
“If there’s any gold it’ll be treasure trove, and belong to the Crown. What kind of a constable are you at all, Shawn? Mind what you are about now, my man, and no back answers. Step along there. Bring that murderer up at once, whichever of you has him.”
There came a gasp from the darkness.
“Oh, Oh, Oh!” said a voice of horror.
“What’s wrong with you?” said the sergeant: “are you hurted?”
“The prisoner!” he gasped, “he, he’s got away!”
“Got away?” and the sergeant’s voice was a blare of fury.
“While we were looking at the Leprecaun,” said the voice of woe, “I must have forgotten about the other one—I, I haven’t got him—”
“You gawm!” gritted the sergeant.
“Is it my prisoner that’s gone?” said Shawn in a deep voice. He leaped forward with a curse and smote his negligent comrade so terrible a blow in the face, that the man went flying backwards, and the thud of his head on the road could have been heard anywhere.
“Get up,” said Shawn, “get up till I give you another one.”
“That will do,” said the sergeant, “we’ll go home. We’re the laughing-stock of the world. I’ll pay you out for this some time, every damn man of ye. Bring that Leprecaun along with you, and quick march.”
“Oh!” said Shawn in a strangled tone.
“What is it now?” said the sergeant testily.
“Nothing,” replied Shawn.
“What did you say ‘Oh!’ for then, you block-head?”
“It’s the Leprecaun, sergeant,” said Shawn in a whisper—“he’s got away—when I was hitting the man there I forgot all about the Leprecaun: he must have run into the hedge. Oh, sergeant, dear, don’t say anything to me now—!”
“Quick march,” said the sergeant, and the four men moved on through the darkness in a silence, which was only skin deep.
CHAPTER XV
BY reason of the many years which he had spent in the gloomy pine wood, the Philosopher could see a little in the darkness, and when he found there was no longer any hold on his coat he continued his journey quietly, marching along with his head sunken on his breast in a deep abstraction. He was meditating on the word “Me,” and endeavouring to pursue it through all its changes and adventures. The fact of “me-ness” was one which startled him. He was amazed at his own being. He knew that the hand which he held up and pinched with another hand was not him and the endeavour to find out what was him was one which had frequently exercised his leisure. He had not gone far when there came a tug at his sleeve and looking down he found one of the Leprecauns of the Gort trotting by his side.
“Noble Sir,” said the Leprecaun, “you are terrible hard to get into conversation with. I have been talking to you for the last long time and you won’t listen.”
“I am listening now,” replied the Philosopher.
“You are, indeed,” said the Leprecaun heartily. “My brothers are on the other side of the road over there beyond the hedge, and they want to talk to you: will you come with me, Noble Sir?”
“Why wouldn’t I go with you?” said the Philosopher, and he turned aside with the Leprecaun.
They pushed softly through a gap in the hedge and into a field beyond.
“Come this way, sir,” said his guide, and the Philosopher followed him across the field. In a few minutes they came to a thick bush among the leaves of which the other Leprecauns were hiding. They thronged out to meet the Philosopher’s approach and welcomed him with every appearance of joy. With them was the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath, who embraced her husband tenderly and gave thanks for his escape.
“The night is young yet,” remarked one of the Leprecauns. “Let us sit down here and talk about what should be done.”
“I am tired enough,” said the Philosopher, “for I have been travelling all yesterday, and all this day and the whole of this night I have been going also, so I would be glad to sit down anywhere.”
They sat down under the bush and the Philosopher lit his pipe. In the open space where they were there was just light enough to see the smoke coming from his pipe, but scarcely more. One recognized a figure as a deeper shadow than the surrounding darkness; but as the ground was dry and the air just touched with a pleasant chill, there was no discomfort. After the Philosopher had drawn a few mouthfuls of smoke he passed his pipe on to the next person, and in this way his pipe made the circuit of the party.
“When I put the children to bed,” said the Thin Woman, “I came down the road in your wake with a basin of stirabout, for you had no time to take your food, God help you! and I was thinking you must have been hungry.”
“That is so,” said the Philosopher in a very anxious voice: “but I don’t blame you, my dear, for letting the basin fall on the road—”
“While I was going along,” she continued, “I met these good people and when I told them what happened they came with me to see if anything could be done. The time they ran out
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