“Go it, gossoons! Faith, the little one’s the better one! Och! Jack—that’s a silly blow! The little one! THE LITTLE ONE!”
So crying, he hopped and pranced about the little platform, in high glee, and, presently, found it too small to accommodate his rising spirits.
“Here’s to ye, Mike, me friend! Sure it’s the nate night for wrastlin’. So it is, so ’tis. Now, isn’t that the purty sight? Eh? an’ ye would, would ye? Come on then! I’m for ye!”
When Mr. Burnham emerged from the tiny office, wherein he arranged his business concerning the passing trains, he found the lads in a fierce scuffle at the very threshold while, on the ground outside, rolled Dennis and Mike in a frenzy of contest, yet that was, moreover, a perfectly friendly and familiar one.
In the “ould counthry,” both trackmen had been famous wrestlers and had won prizes at their parish festivals. Therefore, in this new land, they lost no chance to keep themselves in practice, and now stood up to shake hands with the best of good nature.
“Faith! That was a fine one, Mickey, me boy. Thanks to ye!” cried Dennis, the victor.
“The same to yourself, Mr. Fogarty. If there’s one thing out of Ireland I likes more nor another, ’tis a good wrastle with a neighbor, betimes.”
“Yes, I know, I know. Clears a man’s head betther nor a Sunday o’ sleep. Let’s turn in now, Mr. Grady, an’ leave the misthress in peace.”
So, with their arms about each other’s shoulders, in a fashion beautiful to see, the late belligerents departed toward a small outbuilding where they slept and, in an incredibly short time, were oblivious to all the world.
Then directed Mr. Burnham: