The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes. John Brougham
the two boots stuck, while the little blackguard danced the "Foxhunter's jig," in his stocking-feet, cutting pigeon-wings among the pill-boxes, like a professor.
Bulworthy now roared louder than ever, vainly endeavoring to free his tortured hand from its strange imprisonment, and the more he roared, the more his tormentor grinned, and cut capers about the table.
"Oh, pull out them thunderin' spurs," cried he, in agony. "This is worse than all; mercy, mercy! Misther jockey, I beg your pardon for what I did; it was the drink; there's whisky in me."
"I know that well enough," chirped the grinning imp. "If there wasn't, I couldn't have the power over you that you see."
"Oh, won't you look over it this oncet? I'll be on me Bible oath I won't offend you again."
"Are you in earnest this time?"
"Bad luck attend me if I'm not."
"Well, then, I'll trust you, though you don't deserve it," replied the little schemer, and, after two or three tugs, he succeeded in pulling out one of the spurs. "Do you feel easier?" inquired he, with a grin.
"It's like getting half-way out of purgatory," said the Squire, with a sigh of relief. "There's a fine fella, lug out the other, won't you?"
"I must make some conditions first."
"Let them be short, for gracious sake!"
"First and foremost, are you going to be quiet and reasonable?"
"I am, I am!"
"Secondly, are you going to pay me for the trouble I've had?"
"Whatever you ask, only be quick about it."
"It won't tax you much, you have only to make over to me all the bottles and jars you have in the house."
"Take them, and welcome."
"If you'll promise me not to meddle with them, I'll leave them in your keeping, only they're mine, remember."
"Every drop," cried the Squire, eagerly. "I won't touch another mouthful."
"That's all right; you keep your word and I'll keep mine; there, you may have the use of your fist once more," he continued, as he plucked out the other spur, giving the released hand a parting kick that thrilled through every joint.
"And now," said he, as he pulled on his tiny boots, "I have a word or two more to say to you; you made a foolish wish just now; that you'd like to change places with that miserable cobbler over the way; are you still of the same way of thinking?"
"Should I have your companionship there," inquired Bulworthy.
"Certainly not; he couldn't afford to keep me," replied the gout-fiend, contemptuously.
"Then, without meanin' the slightest offence to you, my little friend," said the other, "it wouldn't grieve me much to get rid of your acquaintance at any sacrifice, even to the disgust of walking into that rascally cobbler's shoes. I'm only afraid that, clever as you are, you can't manage that for me."
"Don't be quite so sure," replied the little jockey, with a knowing wink, amusing himself by every now and then tickling up Bulworthy's fingers with his sharp whip, every stroke of which seemed to cut him to the marrow. "Who can tell but that the poor, ignorant devil would like to change places with you; if so, I can do the job for ye both in a jiffey: more, betoken, here he comes, so that we can settle the affair at once."
At that instant, the door of Bulworthy's apartment flew open, as from the effect of a sudden and strong gust of wind, while he, although seeing nothing, distinctly heard a slight rustling, and felt that peculiar sensation one receives at the entrance of persons into a room while not looking in their direction.
"I see no one," said the Squire; "'twas but a blast of wind."
"I do," curtly replied the little jockey, and then proceeded to hold an interesting confidential chat with the invisibilities; in a few moments, Bulworthy distinguished the jolly voice of Dan, the cobbler, a little jollier than usual; indicating the high state of his spiritual temperament also, by swaying to and fro against the balusters, making them creak loudly in his uncertain progress; at last, with a tipsy "God save all here," he lumbered into the room, tried to clutch at a chair, but, optically miscalculating his distance, overshot the mark, and tumbled head-long upon the floor.
"You dirty, drunken rapscallion," cried Bulworthy, getting into a towering rage, from which, however, he was quickly recalled by a wicked look from the imp, and a threatening movement towards the dreaded top-boots and spurs.
"Listen, and say nothing until you are spoken to," said the little chap, as grand as you please.
"Not a word," replied the cowed Squire.
"Now, Daniel, my friend, I want to have a talk with you." The Squire started with astonishment; he could have sworn that he heard his own voice; but the big sounds proceeded from the lips of the little chap on the table beside him.
"Wid all the veins of my heart, Squire, jewel," replied Dan's voice, though Dan's mouth never opened at all, and Bulworthy was looking him straight in the face.
"You are not satisfied with your condition in life," continued the voice.
"You never spoke a truer word nor that," replied Dan's invisible proxy.
"Neither am I."
"More fool you."
"Would you change places with me?"
"Indeed, an' I would if I had the chance; how would you like to be in mine?"
"It's just what I long for."
Thus far, the conversation was carried on in the voices of the Squire and the cobbler; but now they were both amazed at hearing bellowed out, in sounds like the roar of a cataract when you stop your ears occasionally:
"Blind and dissatisfied mortals, have your desire; let each take the shape and fill the station of the other, never to obtain your original form and condition until both are as united in the wish to return thereto as you are now to quit them."
A terrific thunderclap burst overhead, stunning them both for a few minutes, and, when its last reverberation died away in the distance, the little jockey had disappeared, all supernatural sounds had ceased. The sentient part of the discontented Squire found itself inhabiting the mortal form of the cobbler, prone on the floor, hopelessly and helplessly drunk, while the unhappy Dan appeared in the portly form, and suffered the gouty pangs of the rich Mr. Bulworthy.
CHAPTER IV
"Oft do we envy those whose lot, if known,
Would prove to be less kindly than our own."
The change accomplished by the embodied wishes of the two discontented mortals was, to all appearance, perfect. They bore, indeed, the outward semblance each of the other, but yet retained their own individual thoughts, feelings, and inclinations; and manifold, as may be imagined, were the embarrassments and annoyances consequent upon this strange duality, to the great mystification of their respective households.
The morning after the singular compact was made, the more than usually outrageous conduct of the supposed Bulworthy placed the establishment in the greatest possible uproar, for the nerves and sinews of the imprisoned Dan, wholly unacquainted, ere this, with any ailment other than the emptiness of hunger, or the occasional headache whisky purchased, now twisted and stretched with the sharper agonies laid up by his predecessor, lashed him into an absolute hurricane of fury. Unable to move his nether extremities, he gnashed his teeth, venting his rage by smashing everything that he could reach.
This terrible turmoil reached the ears of the domestics, filling them with apprehension.
"Be good to us," said Mary. "What is it now?"
"Ora, don't ax me," replied Barney, who had just come down from the caged lion. "It's fairly bewildhered I am, out an' out; I wouldn't wondher av it was burn the house about our ears he would, in one of his tanthrums."
"What's worryin' him now?"
"Faix, the misthress is at the head ov it, an' the gout's at the feet, an', between the two, I wouldn't