’This giant, whose name was Darmod David Odeen, was not a respectable person at all, but a big ould wagabone.  He was twice the size of the other giant, who, though bigger than any man, was not a big giant; for, as there are great and small men, so there are great and small giants—­I mean some are small when compared with the others.  Well, Finn served this giant a considerable time, doing all kinds of hard and unreasonable service for him, and receiving all kinds of hard words, and many a hard knock and kick to boot—­sorrow befall the ould wagabone who could thus ill treat a helpless foundling.  It chanced that one day the giant caught a salmon, near a salmon-leap upon his estate—­for, though a big ould blackguard, he was a person of considerable landed property, and high sheriff for the county Cork.  Well, the giant brings home the salmon by the gills, and delivers it to Finn, telling him to roast it for the giant’s dinner; “but take care, ye young blackguard,” he added, “that in roasting it—­and I expect ye to roast it well—­you do not let a blister come upon its nice satin skin, for if ye do, I will cut the head off your shoulders.”  “Well,” thinks Finn, “this is a hard task; however, as I have done many hard tasks for him, I will try and do this too, though I was never set to do anything yet half so difficult.”  So he prepared his fire, and put his gridiron upon it, and lays the salmon fairly and softly upon the gridiron, and then he roasts it, turning it from one side to the other just in the nick of time, before the soft satin skin could be blistered.  However, on turning it over the eleventh time—­and twelve would have settled the business—­he found he had delayed a little bit of time too long in turning it over, and there was a small, tiny blister on the soft outer skin.  Well, Finn was in a mighty panic, remembering the threats of the ould giant; however, he did not lose heart, but clapped his thumb upon the blister in order to smooth it down.  Now the salmon, Shorsha, was nearly done, and the flesh thoroughly hot, so Finn’s thumb was scalt, and he, clapping it to his mouth, sucked it, in order to draw out the pain, and in a moment—­hubbuboo!—­became imbued with all the wisdom of the world.’

* * * * *

Here I interrupted the jockey.

‘How singular,’ said I, ’is the fall and debasement of words; you talk of a gang, or set, of shorters; you are, perhaps, not aware that gang and set were, a thousand years ago, only connected with the great and Divine; they are ancient Norse words, which may be found in the heroic poems of the north, and in the Edda, a collection of mythologic and heroic songs.  In these poems we read that such and such a king invaded Norway with a gang of heroes; or so and so, for example, Erik Bloodaxe, was admitted to the set of gods; but at present gang and set are merely applied to the vilest of the vile, and the lowest of the low,—­we say a gang of thieves and shorters, or a set of authors.  How touching is this debasement of words in the course of time; it puts me in mind of the decay of old houses and names.  I have known a Mortimer who was a hedger and ditcher, a Berners who was born in a workhouse, and a descendant of the De Burghs, who bore the falcon, mending old kettles, and making horse and pony shoes in a dingle.’