As he lost his footing and rolled over in the water deep enough to souse him completely, the children raised a prolonged shout of triumph, and redoubled their efforts to dislodge Hickey, who, while returning their attack with whatever he could lay his hands on, was good-humoredly swearing at them and imploring them to stop their fun.
Suddenly in the midst of all the hubbub, over the noise of the children's shouting, Royal's barking, Hickey's swearing, Phelim's lamenting, a stern—"What's the meaning of all this uproar?" made itself heard, and Mr. Plunkett in shooting costume burst through the bushes on the right bank of the river.
Missiles were flying in every direction, and the only immediate answer to Mr. Plunkett's question was a mud-ball which hit him on the forehead, and a stick that carried away his hat.
He put his hand angrily to his head, and losing all his habitual command of language, exclaimed, "What the devil do you mean by this?"
"We mean," cried Murtagh, who was perfectly wild with excitement, "that we won't have our rights interfered with, and you may just as well know, once for all, that we won't have this hut touched if all the walls in Ireland go unmended."
"Don't be impertinent to me, sir; you'll have whatever you are told to have," returned Mr. Plunkett, hotly.
"Where are you going?" he inquired of the men, who, taking advantage of the cessation of active hostilities, were slinking off towards the carts.
"Please, sir, them stones is no good at all at all," Hickey ventured in answer; "they're all rubbish, every one of them, not worth the carting."
"I didn't ask your opinion of the stones. I told you to fetch them. A set of lazy scoundrels! I believe you're every one of you in league to prevent anything being decently done," exclaimed Mr. Plunkett.
"League or no league, the hut shall not be touched!" reiterated Murtagh.