ing himself. “’Tis a comb. Be the powers of pewther, ’tis the banshee’s comb.”
An’ so indade it was. He had picked up a goold comb the length of your hand an’ almost the width of your two fingers. About an inch of one ind was broken off, an’ dhropped into Darby’s palm. Without thinkin’, he put the broken bit into his weskit pocket, an’ raised the biggest half close to his eyes, the betther to view it.
“May I never see sorrow,” he says, “if the banshee mustn’t have dhropped her comb. Look at that, now. Folks do be sayin’ that ’tis this gives her the foine singing voice, bekase the comb is enchanted,” he says. “If that sayin’ be thrue, it’s the faymous lad I am from this night. I’ll thravel from fair to fair, an’ maybe at the ind they’ll send me to parliament.”
With these worruds he lifted his caubeen an’ stuck the comb in the top tuft of his hair.
Begor, he’d no sooner guv it a pull than a sour, singing feelin’ begun at the bottom of his stomick, an’ it rose higher an’ higher. When it raiched his chist he was just going to let a bawl out of himself only that he caught sight of a thing ferninst him that froze the marrow in his bones.
