"Of course, Emon; an' bad luck to the man of the hundred will lave a toe on it."
"No, nor a heel, Phil," said the wit.
"Stand back, boys, about fifteen yards," said Emon. "Let me at it first; and when I am clean over, go at it as much in a line as you can. Give yourselves plenty of room and don't crowd."
"Take your time, boys," whispered the prophet, "an' let none of us trip or fall."
"Never fear, Phil," ran through them all in reply.
Emon then drew back a few yards; and with a light quick run he cleared the bank, giving a slight little steadying-jump on the other side, like a man who had made a somersault from a spring-board.
The Shanvilla population—the whole of which, I may say, was on the surrounding hills—rent the air with their cheers, amidst which the red sleeves were seen clearing the bank like so many young deer. Not a mistake was made; not a man jumped low or short; not a toe was left upon it, as the prophet had said—nor a heel, as the wit had added. It was an enlivening sight to see the red sleeves rising by turns about eight feet into the air, and landing steadily on the level sward beyond the bank.
The cheers from Shanvilla were redoubled, and even some of the Rathcash men joined.
The two parties were now closing each other in friendly approach toward the centre of the field, where they halted within about six yards of each other; Tom Murdock and Emon-a-knock a tittle in advance. They stepped forward, with their right hands a little extended.
"Hallo, Lennon!" said Murdock; "why, you are dressed in silk, man, and have a cap to match; I heard nothing of that. I could not afford silk, and our sleeves are plain calico."