“One day I took down my ashplant, spat on my fist, and set out for my cousin’s place.  He gave me no welcome.  I informed him as to how the land lay in Gobstown.  I said we must be allowed to make a name for ourselves as the producers of a shining example of a landlord.  My cousin let his head lie over a little to one side and then said, ’In this country shining examples ought only be used with the greatest moderation.’  He looked out through the window and after some time said, ’That Gobstown landlord is the most dangerous lunatic in all Ireland.’  ‘How is that?’ said I.  ‘Because,’ said my famous cousin, ‘he has a perfect heart.’  He put his head over to the other side, looked at me and said, ’If Gobstown does not do something he may be the means of destroying us all.’  ‘How?’ said I.  ‘He may become contagious,’ said my cousin.  ’Only think of his example being followed and Ireland turned into one vast tract of Gobstowns!  Would not any fate at all be better than that?’ I who knew said, ‘God knows it would.’

“My cousin sighed heavily.  He turned from me, leaving me standing there in the kitchen, and I saw him moving with a ladder to the loft overhead.  This he mounted and disappeared in the black rafters.  I could hear him fumbling somewhere under the thatch.  Presently down he came the ladder, a gun in one hand, and a fistful of cartridges in the other.  He spoke no word, and I spoke no word.  He came to me and put the gun in my hand and the handful of cartridges in my pocket.  He walked to the fire and stood there with his back turned.  I stood where I was, a Gobstown mohawk, with the gun in my hand.  At last I said, ‘What is this for?’ and grounded the gun a little on the floor.  My cousin did not answer at once.  At last he said without moving, ‘It’s for stirring your tea, what else?’ I looked at him and he remained as he was and, the sweat breaking out on the back of my neck, I left the house and made across the fields for home, the cartridges rattling in my pocket every ditch I leapt, the feel of the gun in my hand becoming more familiar and more friendly.

“At last I came to the summit of a little green hill overlooking Gobstown, and there I sat me down.  The sight of Gobstown rose the gorge in me.  Nothing came out of it but weak puffs of turf smoke from the chimneys—­little pallid thin streaks that wobbled in the wind.  There, says I, is the height of Gobstown.  And no sound came up out of it except the cackle of geese, and then the bawl of an old ass in the bog.  There, says I, is the depth of Gobstown.  And rising up from the green hill I made up my mind to save Ireland from Gobstown even if I lost my own soul.  I would put a bullet in the perfect heart of our good landlord.