Billy was amazed. Billy was awe-stricken. But the instinct of the musician rose above all other emotions.
"Sound your G!" said Billy.
"Boo-o-o!" was the answer in a deeper base than before.
"Yer out o' tune, ye domned old fool!" says Billy.
"Boo-o-o!" came the response once more.
"Sound yer G, and take that, ye murtherin spalpeen!" said the now thoroughly exasperated musician, dashing his own instrument in the direction of his invisible rival.
Just then poor Billy saw a ferocious-looking pair of eyes glaring at him, and before he had time to add another word, some huge object rushed towards him, struck him a determined blow, and lifting him off his perch sent him into the middle of the road.
The fact is, Billy had wandered very much out of his way, and had mistaken Ward Glazier's barn for his own dwelling. The supposed rival musician was our old acquaintance, "Black-face," the Bull.
Billy picked himself up from the snow, and, regardless of his bruised body and aching bones, steadied himself for a last shot at the enemy. The little man looked in the direction where he thought his adversary ought to be, and though he could see nothing through the darkness and storm, he shouted out, in accents of blended dignity and contempt:
"May the divil fly away wid ye! Ye may be the sthronger of the two, but, be jabers, yer no museecian!"