Irish Folk Tales (75 page)

“Why, what would you bring, you brazen rascal, if you were fairly put up at auction?”

“Faith, I’d bring more bidders than you would,” said Bill, “if you were to go off at auction tomorrow. I tell you they should bid
downwards
to come to your value, Nicholas. We have no coin small enough to purchase you.”

“Well, no matter,” said Nick. “If you are willing to be mine at the expiration of seven years, I will give you more money than ever the rascally breed of you was worth.”

“Done!” said Bill. “But no disparagement to my family, in the meantime. So down with the hard cash, and don’t be a nagur.”

The money was accordingly paid down. But as nobody was present, except the giver and receiver, the amount of what Bill got was never known.

“Won’t you give me a luck penny?” said the old gentleman.

“Tut,” said Billy. “So prosperous an old fellow as you cannot want it; however, the Devil’s luck to you, with all my heart, and it’s rubbing grease to a fat pig to say so. Be off now, or I’ll commit suicide on you. Your absence is a cordial to most people, you infernal old profligate. You have injured my morals even for the short time you have been with me, for I don’t find myself so virtuous as I was.”

“Is that your gratitude, Billy?”

“Is it gratitude
you
speak of, man? I wonder you don’t blush when you name it. However, when you come again, if you bring a third eye in your head, you will see what I mean, Nicholas, ahagur.”

The old gentleman, as Bill spoke, hopped across the ditch, on his way to Downing Street, where of late ’tis thought he possesses much influence.

Bill now began by degrees to show off, but still wrought a little at his trade to blindfold the neighbors. In a very short time, however, he became a great man. So long indeed as he was a poor rascal, no decent person would speak to him. Even the proud serving men at the Big House would turn up their noses at him. And he well deserved to be made little of by others, because he was mean enough to make little of himself. But when it was seen and known that he had oceans of money, it was wonderful to think, although he was now a greater blackguard than ever, how those who despised him before, began to come round him and court his company. Bill, however, had neither sense nor spirit to make those sunshiny friends know their distance—
not he. Instead of that, he was proud to be seen in decent company, and so long as the money lasted, it was “hail fellow well met” between himself and every fair-faced sponger who had a horse under him, a decent coat to his back, and a good appetite to eat his dinners. With riches and all, Bill was the same man still, but, somehow or other, there is a great difference between a rich profligate and a poor one, and Bill found it so to his cost in both cases.

Before half the seven years was passed, Bill had his carriage and his equipages; was hand and glove with my Lord This, and my Lord That; kept hounds and hunters; was the first sportsman at the Curragh; patronized every boxing ruffian he could pick up; and betted night and day on cards, dice, and horses. Bill, in short, should be a blood, and except he did all this, he could not presume to mingle with the fashionable bloods of his time.

It’s an old proverb, however, that “what is got over the Devil’s back is sure to go off under it,” and in Bill’s case this proved true. In short, the Devil himself could not supply him with money so fast as he made it fly. It was “come easy, go easy” with Bill, and so sign was on it, before he came within two years of his time he found his purse empty.

And now came the value of his summer friends to be known. When it was discovered that the cash was no longer flush with him—that stud, and carriage, and hounds were going to the hammer—whish! off they went, friends, relations, pot-companions, dinner-eaters, blacklegs and all, like a flock of crows that had smelt gunpowder. Down Bill soon went, week after week, and day after day, until at last, he was obliged to put on the leather apron, and take to the hammer again. And not only that, for as no experience could make him wise, he once more began his taproom brawls, his quarrels with Judy, and took to his “high feeding” at the dry potatoes and salt. Now, too, came the cutting tongues of all who knew him, like razors upon him. Those that he scorned because they were poor and himself rich, now paid him back his own with interest. And those that he measured himself with, because they were rich, and who only countenanced him in consequence of his wealth, gave him the hardest word in their cheeks. The Devil mend him! He deserved it, and more if he got it.

Bill, however, who was a hardened sinner, never fretted himself down an ounce of flesh by what was said to him, or of him. Not he. He cursed, and fought, and swore, and schemed away as usual, taking in everyone he could; and surely none could match him at villainy of all sorts and sizes.

At last the seven years became expired, and Bill was one morning sitting in his forge, sober and hungry, the wife cursing him, and the children squalling as before. He was thinking how he might defraud some honest neighbors out of a breakfast to stop their mouths and his own too, when who walks into him but Old Nick, to demand his bargain.

“Morrow, Bill,” says he with a sneer.

“The Devil welcome you!” says Bill. “But you have a fresh memory.”

“A bargain’s a bargain between two honest men, any day,” says Satan. “When I speak of
honest
men, I mean yourself and me, Bill.” And he put his tongue in his cheek to make game of the unfortunate rogue he came for.

“Nick, my worthy fellow,” said Bill, “have bowels. You wouldn’t do a shabby thing. You wouldn’t disgrace your own character by putting more weight upon a falling man. You know what it is to get a come-down yourself, my worthy. So just keep your toe in your pump, and walk off with yourself somewhere else. A cool walk will serve you better than my company, Nicholas.”

“Bill, it’s no use in shirking,” said his friend. “Your swindling tricks may enable you to cheat others, but you won’t cheat
me
, I guess. You want nothing to make you perfect in your way but to travel. And travel you shall under my guidance, Billy. No, no—
I
’m not to be swindled, my good fellow. I have rather a—a—better opinion of myself, Mr. D., than to think that you could outwit one Nicholas Clutie, Esquire—ehem!”

“You may sneer, you sinner,” replied Bill, “but I tell you for your comfort, that I have outwitted men who could buy and sell you to your face. Despair, you villain, when I tell you that no attorney could stand before me.”

Satan’s countenance got blank when he heard this. He wriggled and fidgeted about, and appeared to be not quite comfortable.

“In that case, then,” says he, “the sooner I deceive you the better, so turn out for the Low Countries.”

“Is it come to that in earnest?” said Bill, “and are you going to act the rascal at the long run?”

“Pon honor, Bill.”

“Have patience, then, you sinner, till I finish this horseshoe—it’s the last of a set I’m finishing for one of your friend the attorney’s horses. And here, Nick, I hate idleness, you know it’s the mother of mischief, take this sledge hammer, and give a dozen strokes or so, till I get it out of hands, and then, here’s with you, since it must be so.”

He then gave the bellows a puff that blew half a peck of dust in Clubfoot’s face, whipped out the red-hot iron, and set Satan sledging away for the bare life.

“Faith,” says Bill to him, when the shoe was finished, “it’s a thousand pities ever the sledge should be out of your hand; the great Parra Gow was a child to you at sledging, you’re such an able tyke. Now just exercise yourself till I bid the wife and childer goodbye, and then I’m off.”

Out went Bill, of course without the slightest notion of coming back; no more than Nick had that he could not give up the sledging, and indeed neither could he, but he was forced to work away as if he was sledging for
a wager. This was just what Bill wanted. He was now compelled to sledge away until it was Bill’s pleasure to release him. And so we leave him very industriously employed, while we look after the worthy who outwitted him.

In the meantime, Bill broke cover, and took to the country at large; wrought a little journeywork wherever he could get it, and in this way went from one place to another, till in the course of a month, he walked back very coolly into his own forge, to see how things went on in his absence. There he found Satan in a rage, the perspiration pouring from him in torrents, hammering with might and main upon the naked anvil. Bill calmly leaned his back against the wall, placed his hat upon the side of his head, put his hands into his breeches pockets, and began to whistle Shawn Gow’s hornpipe. At length he says in a very quiet and good-humored way:

“Morrow, Nick.”

“Oh!” says Nick, still hammering away. “Oh! you double-distilled villain (hech!), may the most refined, ornamental (hech!), double-rectified, superextra, and original (hech!) collection of curses that ever was gathered (hech!) into a single nosegay of ill fortune (hech!) shine in the buttonhole of your conscience (hech!) while your name is Bill Duffy! I denounce you (hech!) as a double-milled villain, a finished, hot-pressed knave (hech!), in comparison of whom all the other knaves I ever knew (hech!), attorneys included, are honest men. I brand you (hech!) as the pearl of cheats, a tiptop take-in (hech!). I denounce you, I say again, for the villainous treatment (hech!) I have received at your hands in this most untoward (hech!) and unfortunate transaction between us; for (hech!) unfortunate in every sense, is he that has any thing to do with (hech!) such a prime and finished imposter.”

“You’re very warm, Nicky,” says Bill. “What puts you into a passion, you old sinner? Sure if it’s your own will and pleasure to take exercise at my anvil,
I
’m not to be abused for it. Upon my credit, Nicky, you ought to blush for using such blackguard language, so unbecoming your grave character. You cannot say that it was I set you a-hammering at the empty anvil, you profligate. However, as you are so industrious, I simply say it would be a thousand pities to take you from it. Nick, I love industry in my heart, and I always encourage it; so, work away. It’s not often you spend your time so creditably. I’m afraid if you weren’t at that you’d be worse employed.”

“Bill, have bowels,” said the operative. “You wouldn’t go to lay more weight on a falling man, you know. You wouldn’t disgrace your character by such a piece of iniquity as keeping an inoffensive gentleman, advanced in years, at such an unbecoming and rascally job as this. Generosity’s your top virtue, Bill; not but that you have many other excellent ones, as well as that, among which, as you say yourself, I reckon industry. But still it is in generosity you
shine
. Come, Bill, honor bright, and release me.”

“Name the terms, you profligate.”

“You’re above terms, William. A generous fellow like you never thinks of terms.”

“Goodbye, old gentleman,” said Bill, very coolly. “I’ll drop in to see you once a month.”

“No, no, Bill, you infern—a—a—you excellent, worthy, delightful fellow, not so fast. Not so fast. Come, name your terms, you sland—my dear Bill, name your terms.”

“Seven years more.”

“I agree, but—”

“And the same supply of cash as before, down on the nail here.”

“Very good; very good. You’re rather simple, Bill, rather soft, I must confess. Well, no matter. I shall yet turn the tab—a—hem? You are an exceedingly simple fellow, Bill. Still, there will come a day, my
dear
Bill—there will come—”

“Do you grumble, you vagrant? Another word, and I double the terms.”

“Mum, William—mum;
tace
is Latin for a candle.”

“Seven years more of grace, and the same measure of the needful that I got before. Aye or no?”

“Of grace, Bill! Aye! aye! aye! There’s the cash. I accept the terms. O blood! The rascal—of grace! Bill!”

“Well, now drop the hammer, and vanish,” says Billy. “But what would you think to take this sledge, while you stay, and give me a—eh, why in such a hurry?” he added, seeing that Satan withdrew in double-quick time.

“Hollo, Nicholas!” he shouted, “come back. You forgot something.” And when the old gentleman looked behind him, Billy shook the hammer at him, on which he vanished altogether.

Billy now got into his old courses. And what shows the kind of people the world is made of, he also took up with his old company. When they saw that he had the money once more, and was sowing it about him in all directions, they immediately began to find excuses for his former extravagance.

“Say what you will,” said one, “Bill Duffy’s a spirited fellow, and bleeds like a prince.”

“He’s as hospitable a man in his own house, or out of it, as ever lived,” said another.

“His only fault is,” observed a third, “that he is, if anything, too generous, and doesn’t know the value of money. His fault’s on the right side, however.”

“He has the spunk in him,” said a fourth, “keeps a capital table, prime wines, and a standing welcome for his friends.”

“Why,” said a fifth, “if he doesn’t enjoy his money while he lives, he won’t when he’s dead. So more power to him, and a wider throat to his purse.”

Indeed, the very persons who were cramming themselves at his expense despised him at heart. They knew very well, however, how to take him on the weak side. Praise his generosity, and he would do anything. Call him a man of spirit, and you might fleece him to his face. Sometimes he would toss a purse of guineas to this knave, another to that flatterer, a third to a bully, and a fourth to some broken-down rake—and all to convince them that he was a sterling friend—a man of mettle and liberality. But never was he known to help a virtuous and struggling family—to assist the widow or the fatherless, or to do any other act that was truly useful. It is to be supposed the reason of this was, that as he spent it, as most of the world do, in the service of the Devil, by whose aid he got it, he was prevented from turning it to a good account. Between you and me, dear reader, there are more persons acting after Bill’s fashion in the same world than you dream about.

When his money was out again, his friends served him the same rascally game once more. No sooner did his poverty become plain, than the knaves began to be troubled with small fits of modesty, such as an unwillingness to come to his place when there was no longer anything to be got there. A kind of virgin bashfulness prevented them from speaking to him when they saw him getting out on the wrong side of his clothes. Many of them would turn away from him in the prettiest and most delicate manner when they thought he wanted to borrow money from them—all for fear of putting him to the blush by asking it. Others again, when they saw him coming towards their houses about dinner hour, would become so confused, from mere gratitude, as to think themselves in another place, and their servants, seized, as it were, with the same feeling, would tell Bill that their masters were “not at home.”