Voices had begun to snarl and roar, fists were lifted.
"Mussen quarrel!—my weddin'! Mussen quarrel!" Pat was drunkenly saying, sitting on a box shaking his head.
Then suddenly he sprang to his feet, and quick and sharp as a stag, rushed to the wooden swords and stood with arms uplifted, smartly showing the steps. The fellow had spirit, a queer, staccato spirit.
Somebody laughed and cheered, and then they all began to laugh and cheer, and Pat pranced faster, in a cloud of dust, and the quarrel was forgotten.
Jack went to look for Tom. "I'm an Englishman," he thought. "I'd better look after him."
He wasn't in the barn. Jack looked and looked.
He found Tom in the kitchen, sitting in a corner, a glass at his side, quite drunk.
"It's time to go to bed, Tom."
"G'on, ol' duck. I'm waitin' for me girl."
"You won't get any girl tonight. Let's go to bed."