he was not three inches taller.

'Prisintly he sez:--"Duck, ye lump, an' I can get at a man over your
shouldher!"

'"You'll blow me head off," I sez, throwin' my arm clear; "go through
under my arm-pit, ye blood-thirsty little scutt," sez I, "but don't
shtick me or I'll wring your ears round."

'Fwhat was ut ye gave the Paythan man forninst me, him that cut at me
whin I cudn't move hand or foot? Hot or cowld was ut?'

'Cold,' said Ortheris, 'up an' under the rib-jint. 'E come down flat.
Best for you 'e did.'

'Thrue, my son! This jam thing that I'm talkin' about lasted for five
minutes good, an' thin we got our arms clear an' wint in. I
misremimber exactly fwhat I did, but I didn't want Dinah to be a widdy
at the Depot. Thin, after some promishkuous hackin' we shtuck again,
an' the Tyrone behin' was callin' us dogs an' cowards an' all manner
av names; we barrin' their way.

'"Fwhat ails the Tyrone?" thinks I; "they've the makin's av a most
convanient fight here."

'A man behind me sez beseechful an' in a whisper:--"Let me get at
thim! For the love av Mary give me room beside ye, ye tall man!"

'"An' who are you that's so anxious to be kilt?" sez I, widout turnin'
my head, for the long knives was dancin' in front like the sun on
Donegal Bay when ut's rough.

'"We've seen our dead," he sez, squeezin' into me; "our dead that was
men two days gone! An' me that was his cousin by blood could not bring
Tim Coulan off? Let me get on," he sez, "let me get to thim or I'll
run ye through the back!"

'"My troth," thinks I, "if the Tyrone have seen their dead, God help
the Paythans this day!" An' thin I knew why the Oirish was ragin'
behind us as they was.

'I gave room to the man, an' he ran forward wid the Haymakers' Lift on
his bay'nit an' swung a Paythan clear off his feet by the belly-band
av the brute, an' the iron bruk at the lockin'-ring.

'"Tim Coulan'll slape easy to-night," sez he wid a grin; an' the next
minut his head was in two halves and he wint down grinnin' by
sections.

'The Tyrone was pushin' an' pushin' in, an' our men were swearin' at
thim, an' Crook was workin' away in front av us all, his sword-arm
swingin' like a pump-handle; an' his revolver spittin' like a cat.
But the strange thing av ut was the quiet that lay upon. 'Twas like a
fight in a drame--except for thim that was dead.

[Illustration: 'He ran forward wid the Haymakers' Lift on his
bay'nit.'--P. 12.]

'Whin I gave room t