hrouble him to turn ut here. Me own make," says he, "jooled in wan
hole, an' dog-chape at fifteen shillin'--"

He was rattling away in this style when somebody called out, "To think
av a millstone bein' a visible means av support!" And this time the
laugh turned against the saint.

"St. Piran dear, ye've got to die," says the spokesman.

"Musha, musha!"--and the saint set up a wail and wrung his hands. "An'
how's it goin' to be?" he asked, breaking off; "an' if 'tis by Shamus
O'Neil's blunderbust that he's fumblin' yondther, will I stand afore
or ahint ut? for 'tis fatal both ends, I'm thinkin', like Barney
Sullivan's mule. Wirra, wirra! May our souls find mercy, Shamus
O'Neil, for we'll both, be wantin' ut this day. Better for you,
Shamus, that this millstone was hung round your black neck, an' you
drownin' in the dept's av the Lough!"

The words were not spoken before they all set up a shout. "The
millstone! the millstone!" "Sthrap him to ut!" "He's named his
death!"--and inside of three minutes there was the saint, strapped
down on his own _specimen_.

"Wirra, wirra!" he cried, and begged for mercy; but they raised a
devastating shindy, and gave the stone a trundle. Down the turf it
rolled and rolled, and then _whoo!_ leaped over the edge of the fall
into space and down--down--till it smote the waters far below, and
knocked a mighty hole in them, and went under--

For three seconds only. The next thing that the rabble saw as they
craned over the cliff was St. Piran floating quietly out to sea on the
millstone, for all the world as if on a life-belt, and untying his
bonds to use for a fishing-line! You see, this millstone had been made
of cork originally, and was only half petrified; and the old boy had
just beguiled them. When he had finished undoing the cords, he stood
up and bowed to them all very politely.

"Visible Manes av Support, me childher--merely Visible Manes av
Support!" he called back.

'Twas a sunshiny day, and while St. Piran chuckled the sea twinkled
all over with the jest. As for the crowd on the cliff, it looked
for five minutes as if the saint had petrified them harder than the
millstone. Then, as Tim Coolin told his wife, Mary Dogherty, that same
evening, they dispersed promiscuously in groups of one each.

Meanwhile, the tides were bearing St. Piran and his millstone out into
the Atlantic, and he whiffed for mackerel all the way. And on the
morrow a stiff breeze sprang up and blew him