He was sore-hearted, too, at the King, an’ a bit crass-timpered bekase the little man had stayed away so long frum wisitin’ with him.
But at last the knowledgeable man found his tongue. “Be me faix, King,” he complained, “’tis a cure for sore eyes to see ye. I might have been dead an’ buried an’ you none the wiser,” says he, sulky.
“Sure, I’ve been out of the counthry a fortnit,” says the King. “And I’ve only rayturned within the hour,” he says. “I wint on a suddin call to purvent a turrible war betwixt the Frinch fairies and the German fairies. I’ve been for two weeks on an island in the River Ryan, betwixt France an’ Germany. The river is called afther an Irishman be the name of Ryan.”
“At laste ye might have sint me wurrud,” says Darby.
“I didn’t think I’d be so long gone,” says the fairy; “but the disputaytion was thraymendous,” he says.
The little man dhrew himself up dignayfied an’ scowled solemn up at Darby. “They left it for me to daycide,” he says, “an’ this was the contintion:
