Again and again, inwardly provoked to the point of murder, Kenny threatened to break away from the goad of his tongue.

Always then Adam appealed to his habits of pity and treacherously on the strength of it wheedled him into other tales of folk lore merely to refute them.

And always he blamed the brandy.
Kenny knew now that he lied.

Drunk, the old man was stupid; sober, he was satanic in his cunning.
There was one tale of a fairy mill that, in startling circumstances, Kenny told without interruption.

Fairies, in Ireland, said Kenny, had ground the corn of mortals without pay until someone stole a bag of meal that belonged to a widow.