this truculence and the ostentatious way in which
the little green flags were trampled on and insulted, was too much for
Jimmy and his inspired companions.

"Let's charge the hull rabble," was the suggestion.

"What! Six charge one hundred and twenty!"

"Why not?"

The spirit of Gideon's army was on them, and Jimmy shouted: "Sure,
bhoys, let's hitch to that and give it to 'em. Lord knows their black
souls need it." He pointed to a great barrel half full of whitewash
standing in a wagon ready for delivery next day at the little steamer
dock, where a coat of whitewash on the wharf and shed was the usual
expedient to take the place of lights for night work.

Thus it came about. The biggest, strongest team in the stable was
harnessed in a minute. The men were not too drunk to pick the best in
horses and harness. The barrel was filled brim-full with water and well
stirred up, so that ammunition would be abundant. Jimmy was to be the
driver; the other five were each armed with a bucket, except one who
found a force pump through which the whitewash could be squirted with
delightful precision. They were to stand around the barrel and dash its
contents right and left as Jimmy drove the horses at full speed down the
middle of the procession. Glorious in every part was the plan; wild
enthusiasm carried all the six away and set the horses on their mettle.

Armed with a long, black snake whip, Jimmy mounted the wagon seat. The
gate was flung wide, and, with a whoop, away went that bumping chariot
of splashing white. Bill Kenna had just dropped his Bible for the
eleventh time and, condemning to eternal perdition all those
ill-begotten miscreants who dared to push him on or help his search, he
held the ranks behind him for a moment halted. At this instant with a
wild shout, in charged Jim Hartigan, with his excited crew. There was
not a man in the procession who had not loved Hartigan the day before,
and who did not love him the day after; but there was none that did not
hate him with a bitter hate on this twelfth day of July, as he charged
and split the procession wide open.

The five helpers dashed their bewildering, blinding slush fast and far,
on every face and badge that they could hit; and the pump stream hit
Kenna square in the face as he yelled in wrath. The paraders were not
armed for such a fight. Men that could face bullets, knives, and death,
were dismayed, defeated, and routed by these baffling bucketfuls and the