“Whack!” down came the poker in the lusty hand of Bridget Connoway. “Crack!” the targe in the lifted arm of Boyd countered it. At arm’s-length he held it. The next attack was cut number two of the manual for the broad-sword. Skilfully with his shield Boyd Connoway turned it to the side, so that, gliding from the polished oak of the well-worn seat, the head of the poker caught his wife on the knee, and she dropped her weapon with a cry of pain. Jerry and the other children, in the seventh heaven of delight at the parental duel, were sitting up in their little night-shirts (which for simplicity’s sake were identical with their day-shirts); their eyes, black and blue, sparkled unanimous, and they made bets in low tones from one bed to another.
“Two to one on Daddy!”
“Jerry, ye ass, I’ll bet ye them three white chuckies[1] he’ll lose!”
“Hould your tongue, Connie—mother’ll win, sure. The Thick ’Un will get him!”
Such combats were a regular interest for them, and one, in quiet times, quite sympathized in by their father, who would guide the combat so that they might have a better view.
“Troth, and why shouldn’t they, poor darlints? Sure an’ it’s little enough amusement they have!”
He had even been known to protract an already lost battle to lengthen out the delectation of his offspring. The Cæsars gave to their people “Bread and the circus!” But they did not usually enter the arena themselves—save in the case of the incomparable bowman of Rome, and then only when he knew that no one dared stand against him. But Boyd Connoway fought many a losing fight that his small citizens might wriggle with delight on their truckles. “The Christians to the lions!” Yes, that was noble. But then they had no choice, while Boyd Connoway, a willing martyr, fought his lioness with a three-legged stool.
This time, however, the just quarrel armed the three-legged, while cut number two of Forbes’s Manual fell, not on Boyd Connoway’s head, for which it was intended, but on Bridget’s knee-cap. Boyd of the tender heart (though stubborn stool), was instantly upon his knees, his buckler flung to the ground and rubbing with all his might, with murmurings of, “Does it hurt now, darlint?—Not bääd, sure?—Say it is better now thin, darlint!”
Boyd was as conscience-stricken as if he had personally wielded the poker. But the mind of Bridget was quite otherwise framed. With one hand she seized his abundant curly hair, now with a strand or two of early grey among the straw-colour of it, and while she pulled handfuls of it out by the roots (so Boyd declared afterwards), she boxed his ears heartily with the other. Which, indeed, is witnessed to by the whole goggle-eyed populace in the truckle bed.
“Didn’t I tell ye, Jerry, ye cuckoo,” whispered Connie, “she’d beat him? He’s gettin’ the Thick ’Un, just as I told ye!”