his
currabingo ready to faint, "Walk off to your mountains, my fine
fellow, and live like a respectable baste; and if ever I find you come
within seven miles of any town----" He said no more, but spit in his
fist, and gave a flourish of his club. It was all the poor divel wanted:
he put his tail between his legs and took to his pumps without looking
at man nor mortial, and neither sun, moon, nor stars ever saw him in
sight of Dublin again.

At dinner everyone laughed but the foxy fellow; and, sure enough, he was
laying out how he'd settle poor Tom next day. "Well, to be sure!" says
he, "King of Dublin, you are in luck. There's the Danes moidhering us to
no end. D---- run to Lusk wid 'em! and if anyone can save us from 'em it
is this gentleman with the goat-skin. There is a flail hangin' on the
collar-beam in Hell, and neither Dane nor Devil can stand before it."
"So," says Tom to the King, "will you let me have the other half of the
princess if I bring you the flail?" "No, no," says the princess, "I'd
rather never be your wife than see you in that danger."

But Redhead whispered and nudged Tom about how shabby it would look to
reneague the adventure. So he asked him which way he was to go, and
Redhead directed him through a street where a great many bad women
lived, and a great many shibbeen houses were open, and away he set.

Well, he travelled and travelled till he came in sight of the walls of
Hell; and, bedad, before he knocked at the gates, he rubbed himself over
with the greenish ointment. When he knocked a hundred little imps popped
their heads out through the bars, and axed him what he wanted. "I want
to speak to the big divel of all," says Tom: "open the gate."

It wasn't long till the gate was _thrune_ open, and the Ould Boy
received Tom with bows and scrapes, and axed his business. "My business
isn't much," says Tom. "I only came for the loan of that flail that I
see hanging on the collar-beam for the King of Dublin to give a
thrashing to the Danes." "Well," says the other, "the Danes is much
better customers to me; but, since you walked so far, I won't refuse.
Hand that flail," says he to a young imp; and he winked the far-off eye
at the same time. So while some were barring the gates, the young devil
climbed up and took down the iron flail that had the handstaff and
booltheen both made out of red-hot iron. The little vagabond was
grinning to think how it would burn the hands off of Tom, but the
dickens