280 SPORTING REMINISCENCES 



tire of. "Ah, yes, surely now," in the soft Conne- 

 mara drawl. " It was a great feesh surely." 

 He will show you the quaint old churchyard at 

 Salruck where the headstones are broken oars and 

 bits of ships, and until it was stopped by the 

 priests, pipes were left for the lonely dead to smoke 

 in their solitude. Also the pass through the 

 mountains with the huge cairns of stones. All 

 Salruck was evicted long ago and went out across 

 the Killary to live as best it could, but they came 

 back with their dead and wherever the cofhn 

 had to be put down to rest the bearers, every 

 mourner picked up a stone and laid it as a rest 

 made for the heavy burden. 



Tom can tell you of the famine. There are old 

 men alive there who remember it, when men died 

 like flies of want and then fever, and grew too 

 hopeless even to try to take shellfish to live on ; 

 or went out recklessly stealing sheep until they 

 were caught. 



"They just sat down an' died, an' died," Tom's 

 voice would say drearily. 



He knows stories of the Great Martin as they 

 call him there — he was virtually the King of 

 Connemara. The Martins kept open house, every 

 stranger who passed the gates had to come in to 

 eat and drink with them. 



One story of how the great man worsted a 

 shopkeeper in Westport is typical of his wit and 

 the danger of his enmity. This man had vexed 



