But the stern- jawed, frowny-eyed Little People for once answered back never a worrud, but marched stiff an’ silent, as sojers should. You’d swear ’twas the Enniskillins or ’twas the Eighteenth Hussars that ’twas in it.
“Isn’t that Gineral Julius Sayser at the head?” says one brown owl, flapping an owdacious wing at Phadrig Oge.
“No!” cries his brother, another young villian. “’Tis only the Jook of Wellington. But look at the bothered face on Darby O’Gill! Musha, are the Good People goin’ to hang Darby?”
And faix, thin, sure enough, there was mighty little elaytion on the faytures of our hayro. For, as he came marchin’ along, silent an’ moody, beside the King, what to do with the banshee’s comb was botherin’ the heart out of him. If he had only trun it to the ghosts whin he was there at the mill! But that turrible laugh had crunched all sense an’ rayson out of him, so that he forgot to do that very wise thing. Ochone, now the ghosts knew he had it; so, to trow it away’d do no good, onless they’d find it afther. One thing was sartin—he must some way get it back to the banshee, or else be ha’nted all the rest of his days.
