In a second he was up, whip in hand; in a second Mr. Mahony was down, a bag half-filled with soot—a terrible weapon of assault—in his fist.
“Harns! harns!” yelled Mahony, mad with the spirit of battle, and unconsciously chanting the fighting cry of long-forgotten ancestors. “Who says cruckeder than a ram’s harn!”
“Go it, Shan!” yelled the onlookers. “Give it him, Bob—sut him in the face—Butt-end the whip, y’idgit—Hurroo! Hurroo! Holy Mary! he nearly landed him then—Mind the dogs—”
Armed with the soot-bag swung like a club, and the old hunting-whip butt-ended, the two combatants formed the centre of a circle of yelling admirers.
“Look!” said Miss Lestrange, as the party from the house came in view of the road. “Look at the crowd and the two men!”
“They’re fighting!” cried the general. “I believe the ruffians dared to have the impudence to start fighting!”
At this moment came the noise of wheels from behind, and the “tub,” which had obtained permission to go to the meet, drew up, with Patsy driving the children.
“Let the children remain here,” said the General. “You stay with them, Violet. Come along, Boxall, till we see what these ruffians mean.”
So filled was his mind with the objects in view that he quite forgot Dicky Fanshawe.