“I did not,” said the Philosopher. “The first person who washed was possibly a person seeking a cheap notoriety. Any fool can wash himself, but every wise man knows that it is an unnecessary labour, for nature will quickly reduce him to a natural and healthy dirtiness again. We should seek, therefore, not how to make ourselves clean, but how to attain a more unique and splendid dirtiness, and perhaps the accumulated layers of matter might, by ordinary geologic compulsion, become incorporated with the human cuticle and so render clothing unnecessary—” “About that washboard,” said Meehawl, “I was just going to say—” “It doesn’t matter,” said the Philosopher. “In its proper place I admit the necessity for water. As a thing to sail a ship on it can scarcely be surpassed (not, you will understand, that I entirely approve of ships, they tend to create and perpetuate international curiosity and the smaller vermin of different latitudes). As an element wherewith to put out a fire, or brew tea, or make a slide in winter it is useful, but in a tin basin it has a repulsive and meagre aspect.—Now as to your wife’s washboard—” “Good luck to your honour,” said Meehawl. “Your wife says that either the fairies or a woman with a goat’s leg has it.” “It’s her whiskers,” said Meehawl. “They are lame,” said the Philosopher sternly. “Have it your own way, sir, I’m not certain now how the creature is afflicted.” “You say that this unhealthy woman has not got your wife’s washboard. It remains, therefore, that the fairies have it.” “It looks that way,” said Meehawl. “There are six clans of fairies living in this neighbourhood; but the process of elimination, which has shaped the world to a globe, the ant to its environment, and man to the captaincy of the vertebrates, will not fail in this instance either.” “Did you ever see anything like the way wasps have increased this season?” said Meehawl; “faith, you can’t sit down anywhere but your breeches—” “I did not,” said the Philosopher. “Did you leave out a pan of milk on last Tuesday?” “I did then.” “Do you take off your hat when you meet a dust twirl?” “I wouldn’t neglect that,” said Meehawl. “Did you cut down a thorn bush recently?” “I’d sooner cut my eye out,” said Meehawl, “and go about as wall-eyed as Lorcan O’Nualain’s ass: I would that. Did you ever see his ass, sir? It—” “I did not,” said the Philosopher. “Did you kill a robin redbreast?” “Never,” said Meehawl. “By the pipers,” he added, “that old skinny cat of mine caught a bird on the roof yesterday.” “Hah!” cried the Philosopher, moving, if it were possible, even closer to his client, “now we have it. It is the Leprecauns of Gort na Cloca Mora took your washboard. Go to the Gort at once. There is a hole under a tree in the southeast of the field. Try what you will find in that hole.” “I’ll do that,” said Meehawl. “Did you ever—” “I did not,” said the Philosopher.