Not more than a dozen of the last to come escaped, and they flew back to tell the King.
For an hour they raged. All the bad names ever called to mortal man were given free, but Darby said never a word. “Pickpocket!” “Sheep-stayler!” “Murtherin’ thafe of a blaggard!” were the softest words trun at him.
By an’ by, howsumever, as it begun to grow near to cock-crow, their talk grew a great dale civiller. Then came beggin’, pladin’, promisin’, and enthratin’, but the doors of the house still stayed shut an’ its windows down.
Purty soon Darby’s old rooster, Terry, came down from his perch, yawned, an’ flapped his wings a few times. At that the terror and the screechin’ of the Good People would have melted the heart of a stone.
All of a sudden a fine clear voice rose from beyant the crowd. The King had come. The other fairies grew still listening.
“Ye murtherin’ thafe of the worruld,” says the King, grandly, “what are ye doin’ wid my people?”
“Keep a civil tongue in yer head, Brian Connors,” says Darby, sticking his head out the window, “for I’m as good a man as you, any day,” says Darby.
