of straw in a flame. "Bring on yer grub, man, or"--he brought
down his big fist upon the nearest table with a crash that made both
the crockery and its owner leap--"we'll be eating your old carcass on
the doorstep!"

Mr. Nash gave a prompt and obsequious obedience. The Fighting
MacDonalds individually must ever be treated with respect, but the
Fighting MacDonalds in a body! Surely not the most vivid Orangeman
could blame him in his extremity. Perhaps the distracted landlord felt
that, after all, here was a providential means of escape from the crime
he had been about to commit, for very soon he had all Glencoe seated
about the well-spread tables, devouring the banquet prepared for
William of Orange.

The MacDonalds attacked the unholy viands with a zest that not even a
long tramp and a pioneer appetite could quite explain. Mrs. Nash flew
back and forth hospitably, explaining to her satellites, to cover up
any apparent irregularity in her husband's sudden change of patronage,
that indeed they were always pleased to have the MacDonalds with them,
and that she, for one, was very glad to see a Scotchman dressed the
right way.

"Sure Oi've got a sister in the owld country, married to a Scotchman,
thin," she explained quite proudly to Judy Connors. "He's in a Kiltie
rig'ment, an' his name's Pat O'Nale, an' aw now, it was him that had
the foine way o' swishin' his kilt whin he walked, indade!"

Meantime the feast was progressing; the great roasts of pork, the pies,
the cakes, and the puddings were vanishing like the snow on a March
noonday, when once more the assembly outside the tavern was
electrified, this time from the proper source. For from the summit of
the north hill there arose such a mighty banging and tooting as might
have been heard had the new sawmill, lately built on the shore of Lake
Simcoe, taken legs and gone on a mad excursion up over the Oro hills.

Down the slope with waving banners and thumping drums rode King William
himself in brave array, mounted on a white steed which bore a strong
resemblance to Tom Caldwell's old grey mare, and followed by a troop of
loyal subjects, all to the stirring squeak of "The Protestant Boys."

At the sight of this magnificent army marching straight into the jaws
of disaster, Pat Murphy uttered a yell of triumph that put the fifes
and drums to shame. Reckless with joy, he flew into the middle of the
road, and standing there facing the oncoming multitude, his wil