-
Mr. Samuel Garfinkel gasped, jerked
his foot off the accelerator, jammed on the brake, swung
the car sharply to the right and then almost instantly
back again. There was a squealing of brakes, a scraping
of tires on the road and then the car was back in the
right lane (the right lane was the left lane, of course,
for this was happening in Ireland), arid Mr. Garfinkel
put his foot cautiously on the gas pedal.
"Mesliugah Irisher!" he muttered,
half aloud. "He should drop right away dead from
fright!" He glanced back through the rear view mirror
and saw the object of his imprecations emerging again
onto the road. The said object was one of those
incredibly small, dried up old Irishmen who seems to
grow smaller and drier every year of his life, he had
appeared suddenly from the row of trees that lined the
road, dazed and panic-stricken, directly in the beam of
light from Mr. Garfinkel's car. And now, while Mr.
Garfinkel's heart was still in his mouth, the little
man was again essaying the crossing of the road, still
as dazed and panic-stricken as ever.
"If he lives yet the night out,
I'll be surprised," said Mr. Garfinkel, and turned his
attention to the road ahead, attempting to put the
incident out of his mind. But in this case, out of sight
was definitely not out of mind. Mr. Garfinkel reached
his goal-the home of Mr. Timothy O'Shaughnessy, the
manufacturer of world-famous Irish tweeds.
All through the excellent supper
the incident annoyed him, and it wasn’t until he and Mr.
O’Shaughnessy were chatting over their drinks that he
suddenly remembered— when he had glanced into his
rearview mirror to see the little Irishman emerging
again onto the road, his eye had caught the distant
gleam of approaching headlights. Without a doubt,
another car had been bearing down on the little
stranger. Mr. Garfinkel said, “Oy!” arid choked on his
whiskey and soda.
“Did I make it a bit too strong,
then?” asked Mr. O’Shaughnessy, solicitously.
“It’s not the whiskey,” answered
Mr. Garfinkel in a tone that corresponded to his sudden
pallor. “It’s just—I just remembered something.” He
gulped down the remainder of his drink and spent the
moment Mr. O’Shaughnessy refilled his glass regaining
his poise.
“I had it, a shock, driving over
here,” he explained as he sipped at the refilled glass.
“A little fellow jumped out of the woods onto the road
and I almost hit him. And I just remembered that as he
started out onto the road again, after I passed, another
car was coming.”
“Holy Christopher protect him,”
said Mr. O‘Shaughnessy, piously. “But who would be
leaping out of the woods like a boogie, after dark? What
sort of a fellow was he, now?”
“Little he was,” said Mr.
Garfinkel. “A dwarf, he should be in a circus, yet. He
had it a scrubby white beard, and ten million wrinkles.
A nil I think he had on an apron, like.”
“Now that!” exclaimed Mr.
O’Shaughnessy, evincing some interest. “That would be
none of the neighbors that I know. But be like ‘twas one
o’ the little men — a leprechaun, perhaps — by the
apron, I’d say ‘twas a leprechaun.”
“Lepra-cohen?” asked Mr. Garfinkel,
with curiosity in his tone. “This fellow is Jewish,
maybe?”
“Not that I ever heard tell,”
answered his host with a ghost of a smile. “Leprechaun
it is, and the little people have lived in old Ireland
for many a year. ‘Tis the fairies I’m speaking of.”
“Oh, the Fairies!” said Mr.
Garfinkel, loftily. “Don’t tell me there’s grown up
people in Ireland what still believes it, there’s
fairies?”
“Whisht, now,” Mr. O’Shaughnessy
replied, in a sharp stage-whisper. “Don’t you be airing
your skepticism around here. This is Ireland, and the
wee ones little like to hear of them that doubt them.
And faith, there’s things that happen here on the sod
that could never happen beyond, at all, at all. And how
explain it all, save by the little folk?”
“And what then is this
lepra-cohen?” asked Mr. Garfinkel. “He’s supposed to be
one of these little fellows?”
“Supposed to be?” A twinkle of
enthusiasm came into Mr. O’Shaughnessy’s eves. “Faith,
he is one, and one of the most important, too. The fairy
shoemaker, he is, and what with the dances on the green
and the dances under the hill, the poor little creature
is overworked, entirely, fixing the slippers the
fairies wear out.
“But small worry is on him for that, for they pay
well, the fairy court, and there’s never a leprechaun
yet that didn’t have a pot of gold hidden away
somewhere, his savings against a rainy day in
Tir-na-shee. Which the same is Fairyland, saving your
grace. And they do say—” Mr. O’Shaughnessy paused
impressively and refilled his glass—”They do say that if
you catch a leprechaun and hold him tight, ‘tis the
bounden law of the little people that he must give you
up his pot of gold.”
“A shame I didn’t stop
my car and go chasing after this fellow,” said Mr.
Garfinkel with more than a trace of sarcasm in his
voice.
“Well, now,” said Mr.
O’Shaughnessy, judiciously. “You being a foreigner and
all that, ‘twould perhaps have been of little use for
you to attempt to catch him. For, you see, ‘tis weird
powers the wee people have on them, and if you try to
hold a leprechaun, sure, he takes the form of a snake,
or a raging lion or a fish or whatever, and before you
know it you’ve dropped him, and whisht!— he’s off.”
Mr. Garfinkel finished
his drink, shook his head negatively at Mr.
O’Shaughnessy’s offer of another, and lit one of the big
fat cigars he liked so well. He offered one to Mr.
O’Shaughnessy but that worthy preferred his pipe. A
rather strained silence fell over them, ended at last
when they returned to the discussion of business.
Now, this Mr. Samuel
Garfinkel was the junior partner of the firm of Bromley
and Stokes, exclusive English custom-tailors. His senior
partner, Mr. Theodore Murphy, usually made an annual
trip to Ireland, where he purchased from Mr.
O’Shaughnessy a series of fine Irish woolens which, made
up into suits by the partners, had gained them fame and
fortune.
However, this year, Mr.
Murphy’s health had been such that he had been unable to
make the trip. He had insisted that Mr. Garfinkel go,
so, to keep Mr. Murphy in a good mood, Mr. Garfinkel
sailed to Ireland, leaving Mr. Murphy digging and
planting flowers in his back yard, an exercise his
doctor, for some reason, approved of. Everything had
gone unexpectedly well and now the deal with Mr.
O’Shaughnessy was all complete, and the Irishman had
invited Mr. Garfinkel to his home for a farewell
supper.
So at last, about
midnight, the brief stiffness in their relations was
forgotten, Mr. Garfinkel bade his host farewell and
started the drive back to Dublin. On the morrow, he
would take the train for Cobb, and sail again to the
land of his adoption.
As he approached the
place where he had so narrowly avoided striking the
little Irishman, the uneasiness that had affected him
all evening increased ten fold. He slowed down, afraid
that he might see, any minute, an uncertain form rush
out from the trees. When he finally reached the place
where the accident had nearly occurred, he had slowed
down to about eight or ten miles-an-hour and moved
along, his eyes darting from one side of the road to the
other.
Then suddenly he saw it—the huddled little figure
that his presentiment had told him might be there. He
stopped the car and leaped out and in a moment he had
the head of the little Irishman cradled in his arms. He
gazed in amazement at the little figure which he could
see by the lights of his car, and a wave of
credulousness swept over him.
For the little man
really was little — not four feet in height—and his face
was so wrinkled that it seemed impossible that a man
might get so wrinkled in one lifetime. And he was
dressed in the manner of a bygone day, and as Mr.
Garfinkel looked at the knee-length pants, the tricorn
hat and the buckled shoon, he knew that Mr.
O’Shaughnessy was right.
“A lepra-cohen!”
breathed Mr. Garfinkel. “A leather apron, he’s got it!
With knickers and a George Washington hat, yet, and
here’s a shoemaker’s hammer in his belt. Oy!”
What
was he to do about it?
Fate had tossed him what could be a fortune—what was it
Mr. O’Shaughnessy had said? It was almost impossible to
hold a leprechaun, they changed shape so fast — But this
one was unconscious—then what should a fellow do?
Mr. Garfinkel sighed.
This little fellow was hurt. Maybe he was a
leprechaun----so, and maybe he wasn’t— but he was hurt
and he needed a doctor. So. quick. he had better get him
to town. With a warm sympathy that was characteristic of
the gentleman, Mr. Garfinkel gathered the little form up
and carried it to the car. With the frugal and
business-like carefulness that were characteristic of
many of his race, he lay him down on the front seat and
kept a tight grip on his wrist as he started the car and
drove off with only one hand on the wheel.
It was nearly two
o’clock when Mr. Garfinkel drove up to the little hotel
where he had been staying on Mr. O’Shaughnessy’s
recommendation, and the drowsing old clerk scarcely
raised his head as Mr. Garfinkel carried the little form
past him and up the stairs to the second floor. He had a
little trouble getting his keys out, but the unconscious
one had not yet begun to get heavy. When he lay him down
on his bed, Mr. Garfinkel felt the little fellow all
over and was relieved to find no sign of broken bones.
“Might be he’s got it,
internal injuries,” said Mr. Garfinkel to himself, “but
he looks at least more peaceful now. Maybe he’s not hurt
so bad after all.”
The little man groaned
softly and Mr. Garfinkel leaned forward and began to
stroke the small one’s head awkwardly. Thus it was that
he found the injury that had brought the leprechaun to
this pass—was a huge, bloody-clotted hump just above the
left ear.
With an ejaculation of
concern, Mr. Garfinkel rose and hastened to the water
bowl, where he wet a towel and returned to wash the
wound, after which he smeared it with a sulfa salve from
his traveler’s kit and bound it to the best of his
ability.
“He’ll need it, a doctor, in the morning,” he
muttered, “but I guess this will do for the night.”
He fixed himself a
highball, glad to be able to taste something more to his
fancy than Mr. O’Shaughnessy‘s whisky and soda, and
returned to study the form of his “fairy.” As he did so,
the little man opened his eyes and stared blankly at
him.
Mr. Garfinkel dropped
his glass and before it had time to crash to the floor,
he had the little fellow gripped by a wrist and an
ankle. He flung himself onto the bed and sat there and
panted, while the little man lay and looked at him with
a dazed blank wonder growing in his eyes. A moment
passed and then another, and still the two sat unmoving;
Mr. Garfinkel’s eyes sharp and watchful as a hawk’s, the
others with dull, uncomprehending amazement.
“So commence!” commanded
Mr. Garfinkel, at last. “A lion you should be, or maybe
a snake—or might be a gorilla or an alligator—but
commence and get it over with.”
“The—top of the morning
to you, your worship,” came slowly from the little man’s
lips. “‘Tis a bit of an accident I’ve been after having,
I think, and my mind’s that dazed, I can hardly tell the
words you have on you. What was that about a lion you
were saying, now?”
Mr. Garfinkel had a
sudden feeling of misgiving. This little fellow didn’t
even know what he was talking about. So much for Mr.
O’Shaughnessy’s nonsense about fairies and such. What
on earth had made Mr. Garfinkel so credulous, tonight.
Was it O’Shaughnessy’s drinks or his clever Irish
blarney?
And yet— What man of today could be expected to wear
such clothes—
“Look once,” said Mr. Garfinkel. “Are you a
lepra-cohen or ain’t you? Tonight, a friend tells me for
the first time about shoemaker fairies, and tonight I
find you. You sure look to me like a lepra-cohen.”
“Leprechaun?” whispered
the little old man. “Leprechaun, is it. Sure, now,
that’s plain enough. Yes, a leprechaun I am, and my
name’s Mallory, but saving them two facts, there’s devil
a thing I can remember at all, at all.”
Mr. Garfinkel’s right
hand released the fairy’s ankle and smote his brow.
“Gevalt!” he prayed. “Here I’ve got it a real Irisher
fairy—with a pot of gold waiting for me, already—and the
good-for-nothing schnorrer has to get it amnesia!”
For a moment, he stood
motionless, stricken with the tragedy, then he moved
away from the leprechaun and sank into a chair and
buried his face in his hands.
Now, Mr. Garfinkel, as
the discerning reader has already no doubt observed, was
in somewhat more than a predicament. Mr. Garfinkel was
in what he would probably have described as a “pickle.”
He had in his possession, as it were, a genuine
leather-bound Irish leprechaun, with pot of gold
presumably attached, and only slightly damaged by
temporary amnesia. So far, so good. But—
But he was scheduled to leave Ireand in a little
over forty hours. If he held on to the fairy, he’d
apparently have to lug him right across the sea with
him. If he didn’t—there went a pot of gold, right out
the window. If he called a doctor for him, the obvious
thing to do, they’d certainly take his leprechaun away
from him to put him in a hospital—and goodbye, fortune.
If he took him to America with him, dodging the doctors
and the hospitals and going through the incredible mess
of red tape at the immigration offices, and then the
little Irishman turned out to be just a little Irishman,
and no fairy at all—oy, veh!
All night long Mr.
Garfinkel pondered and all night long, little Mallory
dozed on his bed and let him ponder, and when morning
came, Mr. Garfinkel had made his decision. He would take
Mallory to America with him and leave the rest to fate.
In the next few days,
Mr. Garfinkel was going through a series of events that
might have completely ruined his disposition, had there
been any distractions. The little man remained quiet and
unconcerned and quite amenable to Mr. Garfinkel’s every
suggestion. His wants, even, were amazingly few, he
asked only for bread and milk now and then, and once or
twice a little tobacco for his pipe. Mr. Garfinkel, that
first night, broke up a couple of his cigars to provide
this tobacco, and the little fellow was so pleased with
the Havana aroma that Mr. Garfinkel found it necessary,
from then on, to buy about twice as many as was his
habit.
There is much that could
be told about Mr. Garfinkel’s difficulties in clearing
Mallory for transportation to America, but the narration
of these events was inconsequential with what was to
follow.
So! Mr. Garfinkel was
seated in the ship’s lounge, working on the last details
of his plan to get Mallory into America. If things went
smoothly, he’d be able to get a Visitor’s visa on
Mallory’s passport after which the little man would be
allowed three month’s residence in the country. Of
course, there were bound to be a lot of questions asked,
and it was the answers to these questions that were
occupying Mr. Garfinkel’s thoughts. At last, satisfied
that he was letter perfect in the story, he arose and
made his way to his cabin. He reached the door and
before he could open it, he was startled by an
incomprehensible yowling that came from within. He swung
the door open and shouted for Mallory.
“Sure, it’s here I am,
your worship,” came a muffled voice, hardly discernable
in the tumult of caterwauling, “and almost smothered I
am, entirely. Would ye be saving me now from these
infernal cats before they crush me complete?”
The last part of the sentence Mr. Garfinkel hardly
heard, for he had almost gone down in a rush of house
cats that poured from his cabin. Such a collection of
feline animals it had never been his misfortune to
behold before. There were Persian cats, Angora cats,
Siamese cats, Maltese cats, black cats, gray cats, red
cats and white cats. There were fancy cats, probably
pedigreed, alley cats, old maid’s cats, tortoise shell
cats, tiger cats and hep cats. They had hut one thing in
common, a wild desire to get out of Mr. Garfinkel’s
cabin. For a moment, Mr. Garfinkel ducked cats and swore
in mellifluent Yiddish. Then, the feline hegira being
reasonably complete, he waded into the room and towered
over the still prostrate Mallory.
“So where you’re getting
cats?” he demanded of the little man. “Where you’re
getting cats, I’m asking. These you’re not bringing on
board in the suitcase, I know.”
“Saving your grace, your
worship,” began the leprechaun. “Saving your grace, they
weren’t mine. Devil and all do I know about them at all,
now. One minute this room was as empty of cats as
Finnegan’s heart was of grace—and the next minute, I’m
spitting cats out of my mouth and tossing them off of
myself, and more cats were dropping like rain all
around.”
Mr. Garfinkel’s hands
went to his head in a vain attempt to tear the hair
which wasn’t there.
“Don’t tell me!” he
snapped as he watched the last cat disappear out the
cabin door. “A magicker you are—a fairy, already! You
think maybe some passenger is bringing maybe a hundred
cats aboard, he should play a joke on me and you?”
Mallory groaned and took
a pose like Mr. Garfinkel, his head in his hands. The
two sat there for a while, while strange sounds—the
squeals of women, the curses and ejaculations of men and
a vast amount of caterwauling—came from the deck outside
of their cabin. The cats were apparently causing as much
excitement outside as they had in the cabin. Mr.
Garfinkel groaned in anticipation of what was to come
and Mallory groaned in sympathy.
“‘Twas strange, now that
I think on it,” said the little man at last.
“So what’s strange?”
demanded Mr. Garfinkel in bitter sarcasm. “By me is lots
of times a hundred cats. I’m keeping them in the pockets
of my other suit. It’s nothing strange a hundred cats
should jump out. I forgot to feed them this morning,
that’s all.”
“Is it so now?” commented
the leprechaun, innocently. “But I wasn’t talking of
that. What I was thinking on was something else
entirely. You see, just before the cats broke loose, I
was lying here thinking. I was straining my mind to
remember something, and sudden-like a bunch of words
popped into my head, funny words, all mixed up like. I
said them out loud, and as my name’s Mallory, that was
all them cats needed. ‘Twas cats galore and a-plenty
from that moment on, your worship.”
Mr. Garfinkel got up
casually and strolled toward Mallory. He gave a sudden
lunge and had the little man by an ankle and a wrist
before you could say “Jake Rubenstein.”
“You remembered!” he
shouted. “Magic words you remembered Magic words what
bring cats! Look, your memory you’re getting back. Come
on, try and remember some more. Might be you could
remember something important. Could you remember, say,
something maybe about a pot of gold?”
The little man sat down and pressed his hand to his
brow in the attitude of Rodin’s “Thinker.” It was a
little difficult to do with Mr. Garfinkel holding onto
his wrist and ankle, but he managed it. He thought long
and diligently, while Mr. Garfinkel cajoled and
persuaded. But at last: “It’s no use, your worship,” he
sighed. “Devil a thought pops into my head. I can’t even
remember the words that brought the cats.”
So that was that. Of course, they had trouble
about the cats, for there was plenty of evidence that
the cats had come from Mr. Garfinkel’s cabin. There was
also plenty of evidence that they couldn’t have come
from Mr. Garfinkel’s cabin, for how can a man smuggle
aboard and conceal for several days in a small ship’s
cabin— one hundred house-cats? So Mr. Garfinkel was
cleared of the “crime” but he was looked upon with
askance by the passengers for the rest of the trip.
The trip, save for the passengers’ unspoken
suspicions, proved uneventful. For a day or so, Mr.
Garfinkel kept a mighty close watch on the little
Mallory, but that strange little man remained for the
most of the time in the cabin, sitting in thoughtful
pose with one hand wrapped around the bowl of his pipe,
which he smoked continually. Only rarely did he speak, a
brief “Thank you.” after each meal, or a request for a
match, or some thing as inconsequential. When he wasn’t
in the cabin, he was seated in a deck chair just outside
of the cabin, with his hand around his pipe and the same
puzzled, faraway look in his eyes.
And so they came to New
York, and the luck of the Irish seemed to be with Mr.
Garfinkel now, for they passed like a breeze through the
immigration offices and, armed with a visitor’s visa
for Mallory, they came at last to Mr. Garfinkel’s home.
Up to now, Mr. Garfinkel
had been carried along by an unnoticed current of
excitement. The adventures in Ireland, getting Mallory
out, the plotting and planning to assure his entrance
into this country, the adventure of the cats and the
doings at the immigration offices had kept his mind
busy. Now Mallory was installed as a guest in his
apartment, and day followed day and nothing happened. At
the tailor shop, he found that Murphy was still too ill
to attend business regularly, and it became necessary
for Mr. Garfinkel to spend a part of every day at the
shop. Mr. Murphy was thankful that Mr. Garfinkel was
back and gave up appearing at the shop at all. He spent
all of his time at home, presumably continuing his
eternal digging and planting in his garden. As day
followed day and nothing happened, Mr. Garfinkel’s
temper began to shorten.
Mr. Garfinkel returned home from the store one
day, early as usual, for he didn’t like to be away from
home and Leprechaun any longer than possible. As he
stood in the hall outside of his apartment and prepared
to put the key in the door, he was startled by a most
inhuman grunt that came from within the apartment. Mr.
Garfinkel shuddered and froze into immobility. That
grunt, incredible as it must seem, coming from Mr.
Garfinkel’s rooms, had been an “oink.” “Oink” in Mr.
Garfinkel’s apartment! It was several seconds before Mr.
Garfinkel could move, then he unlocked the door and
hurled it open.
His worst fears were realized. In the center of
the living room lay a huge sow and six contented small
pigs. Lying back in Mr. Garfinkel’s favorite lounge
chair, Mallory puffed his pipe and regarded the group
with a look of beatific happiness on his face.
Mr. Garfinkel’s usual bass-baritone “Oy!” failed
him completely. It came out as a shrill falsetto, “Iyiyiyiy!”
and then he had Mallory by the scruff of the neck and
was shaking him.
“For this, I’m bringing you to America,” he
shouted. “For this, Pin healing your head and feeding
you bread and milk, and cheese, already. For this, I’m
breaking up my cigars to fill that rotten pipe of yours.
Schnorrer! Gonif! Schlemiel!
He might have struck the little fellow, but
Mallory had a look on his face that made Mr. Garfinkel,
angry as he was, hesitate. The little man didn’t look
angry, he didn’t even look indignant, his look was one
of astonishment. Mr. Garfinkel, instead of hitting him,
held him up by his shirt collar and snarled:
“So what you got to say for yourself, hah? Get
them—them things out of here, quick, yet. Get them out
the same way you got ‘em in.”
Mallory made a quick,
peculiar gesture with his finger and lo! the pigs were
gone. Mr. Garfinkel slowly released him and he stood
there, his head hanging down, looking for all the world
like a whipped dog.
“Your pardon, your
worship,” he whispered. “I thought I was doing you a
favor.”
“Favor, schmavor!”
snapped Mr. Garfinkel, his words expressing a whole
world of disgust. He stood there, saying nothing more,
and the little leprechaun cringed lower and lower until
Mr. Garfinkel almost expected him to crawl on the
floor.
“You see,” whined the
little man apologetically. “I think my memory has begun
to come back. I sat here and I remembered Ireland, and
the people there; I thought of the homes arid, sure,
they had a pig in the parlor, if so be they had the
price of one. Then I thought, here’s my dear friend, and
devil a pig he has, not even a little one. With that,
another bunch of funny words popped into my head, and me
dying to say them out loud, so I said them—and so help
me, your worship, there was the pigs. How I done it at
all, I’ll never know.”
So there it
was and what was Mr. Garfinkel to do? The cats had been
a trial to him, for he was a man who liked friendly
company and the suspicious glances of the ship’s
passengers had bothered him. But the cats were peaches
and cream compared with this latest development of
Mallory’s latent talents. Mr. Garfinkel sat and thought
for a long time, and then he locked the unprotesting
leprechaun in the bathroom and took a taxi out to the
house of Mr. Murphy, his partner. Mr. Garfinkel had
decided that an Irish fairy who was liable to get his
memory back at any moment was just a little too much to
tackle alone. He needed help, and his Irish partner was
just the man to help him.
Mr. Murphy, as might
have been suspected, was puttering about in his garden,
digging a little here and planting a little there. It
was Mr. Murphy’s only money-losing venture, which
Garfinkel frowned upon. He welcomed Mr. Garfinkel and
they went inside and sat down.
“A queer thing, I’m
going to tell you, Murphy,” began Mr. Garfinkel. “If I’m
telling this to any ordinary fellow, he’d be thinking
for sure that I’m a candidate already for the laughing
academy, but you’re Irish and so—”
He launched into an
account of his capture of and subsequent tribulations
with the leprechaun. He recounted Mr. O’Shaughnessy’s
beliefs and of his own troubles getting Mallory out of
Ireland. He told of the cats, and then, after some
hesitation, of the pigs. He hesitated after that, for he
realized that a humorous smile was playing about Mr.
Murphy’s lips, then the smile broke into a laugh.
“Sure, I never thought
you had such a superstitious nature on you,” chuckled
Mr. Murphy. “What a devil of a time the little fellow’s
been having with you and all.”
“What you mean?”
queried Mr. Garfinkel with a shiver. “You think maybe
this fellow ain’t no lepra-cohen at all?”
“Why, Garfinkel, is it
no sense you have with you at au?” Mr. Murphy shook his
head in amazement at Garfinkel’s credulity. “Man,
there’s no fairies, in Ireland or elsewhere. Snap out of
it, Sam. You’ve been taken in by some slick little
beggar, who was content to sit tight and let you believe
‘whatever you wanted, so long as he got three squares a
day and tobacco for his pipe. And a clever job he’s done
of it, too.”
Mr. Garfinkel felt sick.
“But the pigs,” he groaned .. . “and the cats.”
“Sure, I don’t know how
he did it,” Mr. Murphy made answer, “but I’ve seen
Blackstone, and Thurston, and Harry Kellar in the old
days, and the way they carry on, ‘twould be nothing for
an Irish beggar to imitate them. He did what you say, I
suppose, and that’s enough for me. I’ll believe what you
say—but ‘ghosties and ghoulies’ and banshees and
leprechauns—those are tales for old wives and young
childer.”
Mr. Garfinkel sat
immobile. It was as if a cold breeze was blowing through
his mind and sweeping dozens of thoughts out that had
crowded it for days. At last, he rose.
“I guess I’ll be going,
Murphy,” he said slowly. “I guess I’ve been the crazy
one for the last month. I’ll throw the schnorrer out
when I get home. Let him get back to Ireland the best
way he can.”
Mr. Murphy’s chuckles
ceased. A speculative look came into his eyes.
“That’s the right idea, Sam,” he said. “And now, I
want to bring up another subject. We’ve been partners
for a good many years, and we’ve always had good luck
in all our dealings. Have you ever thought of enlarging
our partnership a bit—maybe fixing it up so that we’d be
partners mall of our financial dealings?”
Mr. Garfinkel was a
little surprised. He had spoken several times about this
idea, for neither he nor Mr. Murphy had any near
relatives and he had thought this a good idea for a long
while. He said:
“You know, Murphy, I’ve
wanted it should be this way for several years,
now..."
“That’s fine, then,”
exclaimed Mr. Murphy. “I’ll be calling in my chauffeur
and the housekeeper for witnesses, and we’ll draw up a
paper that’ll be nice and legal until the lawyers can
fix up something proper.”
“A regular enthusiasm
you’ve got it, all of a sudden,” said Mr. Garfinkel,
with just a trace of suspicion. “What’s causing this
sudden excitement you should get this done so
quick-like?”
“Well, true now, I
haven’t made my mind up all of a sudden,” said Mr.
Murphy in his most dignified tone. “But when Teddy
Murphy finally decides a thing, he wants it done as soon
as possible.”
Mr. Garfinkel might
have been suspicious, just a bit. He had just finished
telling Mr. Murphy of his expectations of a pot of gold,
and here was Mr. Murphy, eager to be the partner of Mr.
Garfinkel in all things. Yes, he might have been just a
tiny bit suspicious, but he quelled his suspicions and
let Mr. Murphy call in the witnesses.
“But remember,”
cautioned Garfinkel, “we are partners only in business.
My private property, as is yours, does not enter the
deal. Your losses in your gardening I do not share.”
They drew up and signed
the paper and had a drink to its success. Then, Mr.
Garfinkel bade Mr. Murphy adieu.
“And throw the little
bum out when you get home, Sam,” advised Mr. Murphy, as
he made his final farewell. “There’s never been a fairy
in old Ireland in spite of what superstitious people
say, but the cleverest beggars in all the world were
always Irish.”
One can hardly blame
Mr. Garfinkel for being down-hearted as he wended his
way homeward. He had come to know that his partner’s
word was good and sound in all his business dealings,
and the fact that Mr. Murphy was ten years older than he
increased his tendency to take Mr. Murphy’s word. So he
entered his apartment with a heavy heart and looked
around anxiously before he remembered that he had left
Mallory locked in the bathroom. He opened his bathroom
door and came face to face with a six foot alligator,
reared up on its hind legs!
For a moment—no, for a
second— Mr. Garfinkel stared, dumbfounded. Then his
thoughts clicked into place, he realized what had
happened and he leaped at the animal in a flying tackle
that would have done credit to whatever famous football
tackle your mind happens to recall. Mr. Garfinkel was no
coward, and the realization of the reward that might be
his spurred him on.
He caught the reptile around the waist with one
arm, and ducked his head under the gaping jaws to thrust
upward thus closing the jowls. He heaved upward,
ignoring the lashing tail; the alligator lost its
balance and went over backward, and Mr. Garfinkel
tumbled on top of the creature, which lay flat on its
back and squirmed. Mr. Garfinkel said “Oy!” then he
immediately said “Ouch!” and almost jerked his hand from
the sharp, prickly quills of the porcupine which had
taken the place of the alligator. The thing tried to
wiggle away from him, but a swift shift enabled our hero
to get a grip on the tail and one forepaw, which he held
onto like grim death.
The front paw dissolved
in his grip, and if he hadn’t had a good grip on the
tail, he would have lost his leprechaun entirely, for
the third shape had no front legs nor hind ones either.
It seemed to be a snake of some kind, and Mr.
Garfinkel’s free hand barely had time to grab it by the
neck. As he did so, he was jolted from hair to toe nails
by an electric shock that ran through him, a shock that
was so violent it froze every muscle in his body. He
cried out in agony, but he didn’t—he couldn’t— let the
electric eel go.
The creature slithered
and squirmed, but Mr. Garfinkel held on. Then the eel
was gone and Mr. Garfinkel leaped upon the little mouse
that tried to dart from under his recumbent form. He
caught the mouse by the neck and one leg and rose again
to his feet. No sooner had he so than it changed again,
this time to a baby—badly in need of a change.
Mr. Garfinkel was a
bachelor and crying babies were a horror to him, as they
are to most men who have reached the age of forty
without attaining fatherhood. This particular crying
baby was a horror which achieved the heights of horror.
Mr. Garfinkel turned his head away and held on like grim
death.
A tiny voice said
“Whisht!” and Mr. Garfinkel looked around in surprise.
The baby’s face had hanged into Mallory’s own, and it
winked solemnly as it said in Mallory’s own voice, “Wait
till you see this next one.” The baby began to change
again, and Mr. Garfinkel realized with a groan that
Mallory had remembered the events which transpired
earlier in the day. The baby followed the precept laid
down by the Duchess’ baby in “Alice in Wonderland,” and
became a pig... a greased pig!... with lard greased
already!
Mr. Garfinkel groaned,
opened his befouled hands and the pig was gone… and the
baby was gone... and Mallory, the leprechaun was gone.
Mr. Garfinkel stood in
the bathroom and scrubbed at his soiled hands and
swore. He swore at Mallory and he swore at himself. He
swore at Murphy for raising the doubts in his mind and
he swore at O’Shaughnessy for ever starting this
business in the first place.
Then a voice said, “So
please your worship, I’m back.”
Mr. Garfinkel wheeled and almost fell over with
surprise as he faced the leprechaun. He stood
speechless, as much with anger as with amaze. The little
man stood sheepishly before him, waiting for him to say
something.
“So, you schlemiel, you’re back,” snorted Mr.
Garfinkel at last. “Some more dirt you’re getting ready
to do to me. Get out, you good-for-nothing!”
“If
you please, your worship, I’m on command,” whined the
little man, woefully. “‘Tis the fairy king himself is
after sending me.”
“Look.
With fairies I’m through,” Mr. Garfinkel stated. “Get my
house out, and stay. Alligators I can stand, and spoiled
babies, I can even stand, maybe, but a pig and a greased
pig-----Out of my house, you schlemiel!”
“Sure and if you’ll
listen, your honor— ‘Tis the command of the fairy king
that I give you another chance. By the bounden law of
fairyland, I have to show gratitude for all you’ve done
for me, and by the word of the king, I have to give you
one free hold and promise not to turn into a pig.”
-
Mr. Garfinkel eyed
him sourly.
-
-
“With a fellow from
your imagination, that’s no gift,” he snapped.
“Dinosaurs I’d be wrestling with, already, or
octopuses, maybe, get out!"
“Sure, now, your
worship,” Mallory’s whine grew shrill. “You’ll not be
getting me in trouble with the fairy king, will you?
For, faith, he’s a mean man to get riled up, and his
anger’ll be falling on you, maybe, as well as me. Take
your hold now and we’ll go on where we left off.”
With a snarl, Mr.
Garfinkel seized the little man and started to fling him
out of the room. Immediately Mallory went into a
bewildering series of changes—he was a lion, a snake, an
eagle, a fish, a donkey and a dog almost before Mr.
Garfinkel could adapt himself to each of the various
forms, And then he was Mallory again, with a sheepish
look on his face.
“You win,” he said.
“I’ll have to tell you where the treasure is buried.”
But Mr. Garfinkel was
dubious now. It had been too easy. “I still say, get
out, you low-lifer. What kind treasure you think I’d
take from a pig? Might be you’d show me Fort Knox, or
the vaults of the First National Bank. Get out, I don’t
trust you.”
“Now, your worship,
take it easy. ‘Tis a real treasure I’m after revealing
to you. By the hands of Lugh, ‘tis so. A genuine box of
gold that I know of, not my own, do you see, but a box
that was buried during your famous Civil War. It’s been
lying there all these years and never a soul knowing of
it but the little folk, and it’s right here in town.”
He was arguing eagerly
now, and some of his eagerness rubbed off on Mr.
Garfinkel. “Come on,” said that worthy, “one last
chance I’m giving you. Show me where’s this treasure.”
With a sprightliness that Mr. Garfinkel had never
before seen in him, the little man ran to the door and
led Mr. Garfinkel out into the street. Mr. Garfinkel’s
spirits continued to rise as he was led up one street
and down another, through back alleys and across vacant
lots until at last they stood before a low brick wall
that walled a back yard in from the alley they stood in.
“‘Tis over that wall that you’ll find the
treasure,” asserted Mallory, solemnly. “Climb over this
wall, right here, and take seven paces from the wall.
Dig there and as my name’s Mallory of the Hill, you’ll
find the treasure.”
He shook Mr. Garfinkel’s hand and vanished.
Mr. Garfinkel looked about him for moment, a
perplexed recognition struggling to express itself. The
place was familiar, but they had approached it in such
an unorthodox manner that he wasn’t exactly sure where
he was. Then, casting his uncertainty aside, Mr.
Garfinkel leaped over the wall and stood—in Mr. Murphy’s
back yard!
THE END