a beating,” said I; “you had better be taking your table to some skilful carpenter to get it repaired.  He will do it for sixpence.”  “Divil a sixpence did you and your thaives leave me,” said he; “and if you do not take yourself off, joy, I will be breaking your ugly head with the foot of it.”  “Arrah, Murtagh!” said I, “would ye be breaking the head of your friend and scholar, to whom you taught the blessed tongue of Oilien nan Naomha, in exchange for a pack of cards?” Murtagh, for he it was, gazed at me for a moment with a bewildered look; then, with a gleam of intelligence in his eye, he said, “Shorsha! no, it can’t be—­yes, by my faith it is!” Then, springing up, and seizing me by the hand, he said, “Yes, by the powers, sure enough it is Shorsha agra!  Arrah, Shorsha! where have you been this many a day?  Sure, you are not one of the spalpeens who are after robbing me?” “Not I,” I replied, “but I saw all that happened.  Come, you must not take matters so to heart; cheer up; such things will happen in connection with the trade you have taken up.”  “Sorrow befall the trade, and the thief who taught it me,” said Murtagh; “and yet the trade is not a bad one, if I only knew more of it, and had some one to help and back me.  Och! the idea of being cheated and bamboozled by that one-eyed thief in the horseman’s dress.”  “Let bygones be bygones, Murtagh,” said I; “it is no use grieving for the past; sit down, and let us have a little pleasant gossip.  Arrah, Murtagh! when I saw you sitting under the wall, with your thumb to your mouth, it brought to my mind tales which you used to tell me all about Finn-ma-Coul.  You have not forgotten Finn-ma-Coul, Murtagh, and how he sucked wisdom out of his thumb.”  “Sorrow a bit have I forgot about him, Shorsha,” said Murtagh, as we sat down together, “nor what you yourself told me about the snake.  Arrah, Shorsha! what ye told me about the snake, bates anything I ever told you about Finn.  Ochone, Shorsha! perhaps you will be telling me about the snake once more?  I think the tale would do me good, and I have need of comfort, God knows, ochone!” Seeing Murtagh in such a distressed plight, I forthwith told him over again the tale of the snake, in precisely the same words as I have related it in the first part of this history.  After which, I said, “Now, Murtagh, tit for tat; ye will be telling me one of the old stories of Finn-ma-Coul.”  “Och, Shorsha!  I haven’t heart enough,” said Murtagh.  “Thank you for your tale, but it makes me weep; it brings to my mind Dungarvon times of old—­I mean the times we were at school together.”  “Cheer up, man,” said I, “and let’s have the story, and let it be about Ma-Coul and the salmon and his thumb.”  “Arrah, Shorsha!  I can’t.  Well, to oblige you, I’ll give it you.  Well, you know Ma-Coul was an exposed child, and came floating over the salt sea in a chest which was cast ashore at Veintry Bay.  In the corner of that bay was a castle, where dwelt a giant and his