I’ve studied meself considherable, an’ never could rightly con-clude; but Darby at the time was so bothered that he only said, in rayply to the King:
“Sure, it’s little I know, an’ sorra little I care,” he says, sulky. “I’ve something more important than hin’s eggs throubling me mind, an’ maybe ye can help me,” he says, anxious.
“Arrah, out with it, man,” says the King. “We’ll find a way, avourneen,” he says, cheerful.
With that Darby up an’ toult everything that had happened Halloween night an’ since, an’, indeed, be sayin’: “Now, here’s that broken piece of comb in me pocket, an’ what to do with it I don’t know. Will ye take it to the banshee, King?” he says.
The King turned grave as a goat. “I wouldn’t touch that thing in yer pocket, good friends as we are, to save yer life—not for a hundhred pounds. It might give them power over me. Yours is the only mortial hand that ever touched the banshee’s comb, an’ yours is the hand that should raystore it.”
“Oh, my, look at that, now,” says Darby, in despair, nodding his head very solemn.
“Besides,” says the King, without noticin’ him, “there’s only one ghost in Croaghmah I ’ssociate
