find
you come within seven miles of any town, I'll--"

He said no more, but spit in his fist, and gave a flourish of his club.
It was all the poor divel of a wolf wanted: he put his tail between his
legs, and took to his pumps without looking at man or mortal, and
neither sun, moon, or stars ever saw him in sight of Dublin again.

At dinner every one 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. Deuce run to Lusk wid 'em! and if
any one 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 which way he was to go, and Redhead
directed him.

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 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 o' Tom, but the dickens a burn it made on him, no more nor if it
was a good oak sapling.

"Thankee," says Tom. "Now would you open the gate for a body, and I'll
give you no more trouble."

"Oh, tramp!" says Ould Nick; "is that the way? It is