"Go to the devil, you Irish bogtrotter!" was the reply.
"Did ye hear him, master, dear, call me names? O, that the ruffians should abuse a dacent lad, who has worked night and day for the paraties that he ates, and the meat that he drinks."
"Whiskey, more like," grunted Bill.
"I'll whiskey ye, ye devils; start at once, or by St. Patrick I'll drive ye into the water like the holy man did the toads and snakes—long life to him."
Still the ruffians held back, and swore roundly, that they would not stir, unless carried across the stream; and at this display of obstinacy, Mike lost all mercy.
"Ye won't go, hey?" he shouted, bringing his spear fair against the broadest portion of one of the bushranger's bodies; "of coorse ye won't move, hey?"
As he spoke, he pressed harder and harder, but the ruffian stood his ground remarkably well, although he must have suffered considerably.
"Is that one of the poisoned spear points?" Mr. Brown asked, carelessly.
"Of coorse it is," replied Mike, promptly, seeing the pertinence of the question.
"You Irish thief, do you mean to say that the spear is pisened?" demanded the robber, eagerly.