Jackson sprang into the crowd, which parted like water before a strong swimmer.  He cocked his hat, smacked his fists, and invited any or all to stand up to him.  He was crazy for a fight, to get even with Jack and Jarvis; but no one was willing to favor him.  He marched through the gang lengthways, crossways, and diagonally, but to no purpose.  In great disgust he returned to the barn and reported that the crowd would not be “conciliated.”  When we left, however, there were no miners to be seen.

It was after one o’clock in the morning when I reached home.  Going directly to the room occupied by the boys, I met Polly on the stairs.

“I’m glad you’ve come,” said she, “for I can’t do a thing with those boys; they are too wild for any use.”

Entering the room, I found the lads in bed, but hilarious.  They had sent for Lars and had filled him full of hot stuff and commendation.  He was sitting on the edge of a chair between the two beds, his honest eyes bulging and his head rolling from the effects of unusual potations.  The lads had tasted the cup, too, but lightly; their high spirits came from other sources.  Victories in war and in love deserve celebration; and when the two are united, a bit of freedom must be permitted.  They sat bolt upright against the heads of their beds with flushed faces and shining eyes.  They shouted Greek and Latin verse at the bewildered Swede; they gave him the story of Lars Porsena in the original, and then in bad Swedish.  They called him Lars Porsena,—­for had he not fought gallantly?  Then he was Gustavus Adolphus,—­for had he not come to the aid of the Protestants when they were in sore need?  And then things got mixed and the “Royal Swede” was Lars Adolphus or Gustavus Porsena Viking all in one.  The honest fellow was more than half crazed by strong waters, incomprehensible words, and “jollying up” which the young chaps had given him.

“See here, boys, don’t you see that you’re sending your noble Swede to his Lutzen before his time,—­not dead, indeed, but dead drunk?  This isn’t the sort of medicine for either of you; you should have been asleep three hours ago.  I’ll take your last victim home.”

We heard no more from any of the fighters until nine in the morning.  In looking them over I found that the Swede had as sore a head as either of the others, though he had never taken a blow.

Many friends came to see the boys during the days of their seclusion, to congratulate them on their fortunate escape, and to compliment them on their skill and courage.  The lads enjoyed being made much of, and their convalescence was short and cheerful.  Of course Sir Tom was the most constant and most enthusiastic visitor.  The warm-hearted Irishman loved the boys always, but now he seemed to venerate them.  The successful club fight appealed to his national instincts as nothing else could have done.

“With twenty years off and a shillalah in me hand I would have been proud to stand with you.  By the Lord, I’m asking too much!  I’ll yield the twenty years and only ask for the stick!” And his cane went whirling around his head, now guarding, now striking, and now with elaborate flourishes, after the most approved Donny-brook fashion.