“'Oh, murdher, my arm!' (One of the O'Callaghans attacks him—crack, crack)—
“'Take that, you vagabone!'—(whack, whack).
“' Murdher, murdher, is it strikin' a down man you're after?—foul, foul, and my arm broke!'—(crack, crack).
“'Take that, with what you got before, and it'll ase you, maybe.'
“(A party of the O'Hallaghans attack the man who is beating him).
“'Murdher, murdher!'—(crack, whack, whack, crack, crack, whack).
“'Lay on him, your sowls to pirdition—lay on him, hot and heavy—give it to him! He sthruck me and me down wid my broken arm!'
“'Foul, ye thieves of the world!—(from the O'Callaghan)—foul! five against one—give me fair play!—(crack, crack, crack)—Oh!—(whack) Oh, oh, oh!'—(falls senseless, covered with blood).
“'Ha, hell's cure to you, you bloody thief; you didn't spare me with my arm broke'—(Another general shout.) 'Bad end to it, isn't it a poor case entirely, that I can't even throw up my caubeen, let alone join in the diversion.'
“Both parties now rallied, and ranged themselves along the street, exhibiting a firm phalanx, wedged close against each other, almost foot to foot. The mass was thick and dense, and the tug of conflict stiff, wild and savage. Much natural skill and dexterity were displayed in their mutual efforts to preserve their respective ranks unbroken, and as the sallies and charges were made on both sides, the temporary rash, the indentation of the multitudinous body, and the rebound into its original position, gave an undulating appearance to the compact mass—reeking, dragging, groaning, and buzzing as it was, that resembled the serpentine motion of a rushing water-spout in the clouds.