thin the two women, turning on him, fell to abusin’ and ballyraggin’ the Man without Childher, till sorra bit of courage was left in his heart.
“I promised you yer choice, and they’ll lave you no choice,” says the King, looking vexed. “Well, here’s the hundhred pounds, and let Judy keep the child.”
Whin the fairy turned to the ballad-maker the hearts of all the Mulligans stopped still.
“Now, my grand fellow, me one-legged jaynious,” he says, “you’re goin’ to be disappinted. You think I’ll give you riches, but I won’t.” At that Tom’s jaw dhropped to his chist, and the littlest Mulligans began to cry.
“I’ll not make you rich bekase you’re a born ballad-maker, and a weaver of fine tales, and a jaynious—if you make a jaynious rich you take all the songs out of him and you spile him. A man’s heart-sthrings must be often stretched almost to the breaking to get good music from him. I’ll not spile you, Tom Mulligan.
“Besides,” he says, “as you are a natural-born ballad-maker, you’d kill yourself the first year thryin’ to spind all your money at wanst. But I’ll do betther
