Dark suspicions flashed across the peasant’s mind. What meaned this wondrous civility? His eye caught that of the Jew--he remembered the admonition of the Israelite--and was he “done brown” already? Up he sprang, desired his companions to come away, and would have bade the company “a fair good-night,” had not a gentle detainer been laid on.
“Sit down, my boy,” exclaimed the commander. “Drink like a soldier to-night--and in the morning ye’ll have time enough to take lave of y’er relashins.”
“Take lave of my relashins!” returned the countryman, as he made a desperate effort to reach the door--an intention on his part which was promptly prevented; for on one side he was pinioned by the fifer, on the other collared by Mr. Flyn, while the commander talked something about the articles of war, and hinted that mutiny was punishable with death.
The countrymen seized the intended hero by one arm, the crimps held on as doggedly by the other; and as both parties pulled stoutly, it might have been supposed that they intended to partition the victim between them. Pushes were succeeded by blows,--the _mêlée_ became general.--Mark Antony joined the soldiers, the Jew sided with the countrymen, four or five couples were actively engaged in the centre of the floor--and divers on both sides, who, either from want of room or inclination had abstained from a personal display, carried on a sort of guerilla warfare, and, acting _en tirailleur_, kept up a lively discharge of turfs and pewter measures, apparently with perfect indifference as to whether the sculls their missiles might invade should prove Tyrian or Trojan. While delivering a murderous blow at his opponent, a recruit, with a sweep of his cudgel, brought down a shelf on which sundry specimens of the fine arts had been deposited; and, in the very act of deprecating hostilities, the commander received an erratic visit from a three-legged stool, which destroyed his perpendicular and sent him flying through a cupboard. The boy, small as he was, did not escape--he was driven through his own drum-head; and that stirring instrument of war was silenced most effectually.
But battles have their limit--men cannot fight for ever,
Irish rows end as quickly as they commence, and the _rookarn’n_ in the Cock and Punch-bowl at last began to languish. Sundry who had already figured in the fray, now cried “hold! enough!”--and others who had saluted their mother earth still remained there recumbent, opining that under existing circumstances, this position was the safer. Two combatants however, still remained unsatisfied. They had sought each other in the conflict; and now, by a sort of general consent, the floor was abandoned by all the other belligerents, and like bulls in a china shop, the fosterer and the Israelite were left with the arena to themselves.