When Fingal heard that this great chap was coming over, he
was in a devil of a fright, for they told him that the Scotchman was
taller by a few feet or so. Giants, you know, measure by feet, and don't
bother themselves about the inches, as we little devils are obliged to
do. So Fingal kept a sharp look-out for the Scotchman, and one fine
morning, there he was, sure enough, coming up the hill to Fingal's
house. If Fingal was afraid before, he had more reason to be afraid when
he saw the fellow, for he looked for all the world like the Monument
upon a voyage of discovery. So Fingal ran into his house, and called to
his wife Shaya, 'My vourneen,' says he, 'be quick now; there's that big
bully of a Scotchman coming up the hill. Kiver me up with the blankets,
and if he asks who is in bed, tell him it's the child.' So Fingal laid
down on the bed, and his wife had just time to cover him up, when in
comes the Scotchman, and though he stooped low, he broke his head
against the portal. 'Where's that baste Fingal?' says he, rubbing his
forehead; 'show him to me, that I may give him a bating.' 'Whisht,
whisht!' cries Shaya, 'you'll wake the babby, and then him that you talk
of bating will be the death of you, if he comes in.' 'Is that the
babby?' cried the Scotchman with surprise, looking at the great carcass
muffled up in the blankets. 'Sure it is,' replied Shaya, 'and Fingal's
babby too; so don't you wake him, or Fingal will twist your neck in a
minute.' 'By the cross of St Andrew,' replied the giant, 'then it's time
for me to be off; for if that's his babby, I'll be but a mouthful to the
fellow himself.
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