_Mrs. J._ Three days and three nights!--and isn’t it nine months since you lepped out of the ship? Will you tell me now where you have been in the meanwhile and what you were doing at all? _Mr. J._ Sure the Lord spoke to the whale, and the whale threw me up on the dry land---- _Mrs. J._ (_suspicious soul_). And where would that be now? _Mr. J._ Sure I don’t know now---- _Mrs. J._ I should think not indeed---- _Mr. J._ --but it was a small little island and devil a ship came there at all to take me away---- _Mrs. J._ (_to T. J., lifting her hands_). Did you ever hear the like of that? And were there any fine young ladies or mermaids maybe on that same small little island? _Mr. J._ There were not then--nor statues either. _T. J._ (_humouring him_). And what might ye be doing while you were in the belly of the whale, Michael Flannigan? _Mr. J._ And why wouldn’t I be prophesying and praying unto the Lord, the way he would calm the whale, and it roaring and lepping in the sea like a trout that has the hook swallowed, and it tickling...? _Mrs. J._ It’s well you might be praying unto the Lord, Michael Flannigan, for it’s a queer thing entirely if a lone widow woman can no more be left in peace without her man coming back from the dead to frighten her out of her wits with whales and the like, the way she would be the laughing stock of the whole country-side! And it’s devil a penny will I have from the Government now seeing you are alive again and not dead at all. _T. J._ It’s a true word, Michael Flannigan, and it’s queer uneasy I am myself that had set my heart on marrying your own wife. _Mrs. J._ And will you tell me now what will we be after doing with the grand statue we have put up on you, Michael Flannigan, and it’s myself that has the flesh worn from my fingers with working to put a few shillings together to pay for it? _Mr. J._ (_infuriated_). Is it I that was asking for a statue at all? (_He regards it._) But sure it is a fine thing entirely--and why would it not stay where it is? _Mrs. J._ And the whole world coming here by the train to make a mock of me, the way they would be seeing the statue of the man who “gave his life for his fellow-travellers,” and him sleeping in his own bed all the time like a common man! _Mr. J._ Common, is it? Is it _every_ day you have a man coming from the dead that was three days and three nights in the belly of a whale? _Mrs. J._ It is not--thanks be to God! _T. J._ What ails you now, Bridget Ellen! Why wouldn’t we be altering the writing that is below the statue and write down this story about the whale, or any other fairy-story that he might be thinking of in the night and him lying awake--for sure it is a grand story and I wouldn’t wonder would the folk be travelling out from the big towns to see the man that was in the belly of a whale, when they wouldn’t walk across the road to see a man that gave his life for his fellow-travellers, and they English as like as not.