It was a
great conger that lived in a hole in the Sligo River, and I suppose he
was ten yards long, and the man was a diver. He was gettin' stones out
of the bottom of the river, and the conger says to him, 'What are you
afther there?' says he. 'Stones, sor,' says the diver. 'Hadn't you
betther be goin?' says the conger. 'I think so, sor,' says the diver,
and afther that he never stopped goin' till he got to the States."
"That's you, Peter," said the old woman; "you don't believe in the
Good People or strange monsters or anything of the sort, but you want
to run away from them."
If Peter had been quite honest about it, he could scarcely have said,
even to himself, whether he believed that there were any fairies or
not; but he was really afraid of them, though he put on such a bold
front and said that he did not believe in them, to make people think
that he was uncommonly knowing. "Mrs. O'Brien," he said, "do you think
it's true, what they say, that in the States you can pick up goold
everywhere in the streets?"
"What good would it do you if it was true?" she asked.
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