“If dey grow such tings as yo’ dar, wild, I kain’t say I fink it am anyfing but a berry lily green spot on de face ob de yairth,” averred Pomp, solemnly.
Barney was tired in a moment. He saw the fun lurking in the corners of Pomp’s eyes.
He was all ready for a ruction and this assertion touched him off.
“So yez think it is only a little grand spot, eh?” asked the Celt, rolling up his sleeves. “Well, grane is not hurtful to the eyes, I’ve heard tell, loike the black yez get in Afriky.”
“Wha’ yo’ know ’bout Afriky?” exclaimed Pomp.
“What do yez know about Oireland?” spluttered Barney.
“All I knows ’bout it is jest wha’ yo’ hab tole me, an’ dat am enuff,” sniffed Pomp. “Wha’ yo’ got yo’ sleeves rolled up fo’?”
“Begorra, I don’t allow any mon to insult me or me native land,” said the Celt, hitching up his trousers; “here’s phwat backs me up.”
He shook a fist in Pomp’s face. The darky dodged, and the Celt made a biff at him. Then they closed in an exciting encounter. Long and hard it was, but as it would have been impossible to injure either one of their tough skins and hardy frames by any dint of such pounding and wrestling, they finally emerged from the encounter hardly the worse for it.
But the honor of each was satisfied, and their mania for wrestling as well.