refrained from declaring war.

"Sure now," said the Preacher, as he looked calmly around, "I regret to
have the meeting open so unrestful, when it was my intention to start it
with a prayer, followed by a hymn with all of you joining in. But you
seemed to want it this way and, of course, I had to humour you. Now I
will begin by pouring out a drink offering on the altar of God."

He stepped toward the keg. It was unopened. He raised it in his hands
and dashed it down on the floor. It bounded up unhurt. Realizing his
purpose for the first time, the men gave vent to savage oaths backed by
an assertion of property rights. Then, seeing that he was undeterred,
they set upon him with a rush.

Jim, it must be confessed, found a new joy in that new attack. It gave
him a chance to work off his superabundant energy. The confined space of
the cabin was in his favour. He blocked all attempts to encompass him,
while his mighty arms did terrific execution, and when the finish came
it showed the would-be revellers lying around in various positions
eloquent of defeat.

"Sure, it's mighty sorry I am, but I have to tend to my job."

Going to the fireplace, and picking up one of the bricks used to support
the logs, he smashed in the head of the keg and spilled the odorous
contents on the floor. The final splash he threw toward the fire,
expecting to see it blaze into a blue flame, but it acted as water and
the room was filled with an evil stench. The Preacher knew what it
meant; his contemptuous "Humph!" expressed it all.

"Where are you going?" he demanded, as the tallest of the ruffians moved
to the door.

"You mind your own business. I am going home," was the answer.

"Come back and join us, we're going to have a prayer meeting," and Jim
stepped over to the door.

"Now get down on your knees, all of ye," and he himself kneeled. The
little man and two of the women followed his example.

"Get down on your knees!" the Preacher thundered to those standing. The
big fellow had got a stick of firewood for a weapon and, despite his
crippled right hand, was disposed to fight.

"Oh, ho! shillelah play," chuckled Hartigan, "that's an ould, ould game
with me."

He rose and picked up a leg of the table broken off during the struggle.
It was not a heavy club, but it was in skilful hands. There is one move
of the shillelah that the best experts have trouble to parry, that is
the direct thrust. The slash right and the slash left, the ove