e targe in the lifted arm of Boyd countered it. At
arm's-length he held it. The next attack was cut number two of the
manual for the broad-sword. Skilfully with his shield Boyd Connoway
turned it to the side, so that, gliding from the polished oak of the
well-worn seat, the head of the poker caught his wife on the knee, and
she dropped her weapon with a cry of pain. Jerry and the other children,
in the seventh heaven of delight at the parental duel, were sitting up
in their little night-shirts (which for simplicity's sake were
identical with their day-shirts); their eyes, black and blue, sparkled
unanimous, and they made bets in low tones from one bed to another.

"Two to one on Daddy!"

"Jerry, ye ass, I'll bet ye them three white chuckies[1] he'll lose!"

"Hould your tongue, Connie--mother'll win, sure. The Thick 'Un will get
him!"

Such combats were a regular interest for them, and one, in quiet times,
quite sympathized in by their father, who would guide the combat so that
they might have a better view.

"Troth, and why shouldn't they, poor darlints? Sure an' it's little
enough amusement they have!"

He had even been known to protract an already lost battle to lengthen
out the delectation of his offspring. The Caesars gave to their people
"Bread and the circus!" But they did not usually enter the arena
themselves--save in the case of the incomparable bowman of Rome, and
then only when he knew that no one dared stand against him. But Boyd
Connoway fought many a losing fight that his small citizens might
wriggle with delight on their truckles. "The Christians to the lions!"
Yes, that was noble. But then they had no choice, while Boyd Connoway, a
willing martyr, fought his lioness with a three-legged stool.

This time, however, the just quarrel armed the three-legged, while cut
number two of Forbes's Manual fell, not on Boyd Connoway's head, for
which it was intended, but on Bridget's knee-cap. Boyd of the tender
heart (though stubborn stool), was instantly upon his knees, his
buckler flung to the ground and rubbing with all his might, with
murmurings of, "Does it hurt now, darlint?--Not baeaed, sure?--Say it is
better now thin, darlint!"

Boyd was as conscience-stricken as if he had personally wielded the
poker. But the mind of Bridget was quite otherwise framed. With one hand
she seized his abundant curly hair, now with a strand or two of early
grey among the straw-colour of it, and while she pulled handfuls