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Are you an inmate?

Inside the perimeter fence of the lunatic asylum sat Marty Mullen, lazily painting the railings a bright blue. As he stroked the brush gently up and down he was approached by a passing American tourist.

'Are you an inmate of this place?' he inquired.

'Well, yes and no,' said Marty. 'You see I masterminded the greatest train robbery in Ireland's history. Seventeen million pounds we took. I was arrested but tricked the court into thinking I was nuts, and they put me in here.'

'Well, what happened to the money?' asked the American.

'Sure that's the greatest part of the whole affair. I managed to plant it not a mile from here. At Beckett's crossroads there's a tall oak tree and I dug down twelve feet and buried the cash on the north side,' said Marty with a smile.

The tourist could hardly stop from breaking into a gallop as he covered the mile to Beckett's crossing. He bought a spade at the general store and, finding the oak tree, he dug for dear life, ten feet, twelve feet, fifteen feet, twenty feet - nothing! A big fat zero.

Back to the nuthouse he raced and there sat Mullen, still painting.

'There's no money under that tree!' bellowed the American. 'No money at all.'

'You've dug down and searched have you?' asked Marty.

'Yes,' muttered the Yank.

Marty beamed and said, 'Grab a brush!'


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