In a word, the Polka was a marvellous tribute to its girl-proprietor’s sense of domesticity.  Nothing that could insure the comfort for her patrons was omitted.  Nothing, it would seem, could occur that would disturb the harmonious aspect of the scene.

But alas! the night was yet young.

Now the moment for which not a few of that good-humoured and musically-inclined company were waiting arrived.  Clear above the babel of voices sounded a chord, and the poor old concertina player began singing in a voice that was as wheezy as his instrument: 

“Camp town ladies sing this song
Dooda!  Dooda! 
Camp town race track five miles long
Dooda!  Dooda!  Day!”

Throughout the solo nothing more nerve-racking or explosive than an occasional hilarious whoop punctuated the melody.  For once, at any rate, it seemed likely to go the distance; but no sooner did the chorus, which had been taken up, to a man, by the motley crowd and was rip-roaring along at a great rate, reach the second line than there sounded the reports of a fusillade of gun-shots from the direction of the street.  The effect was magical:  every voice trailed off into uncertainty and then ceased.

Instantly the atmosphere became charged with tension; a hush fell upon the room, the joyous light of battle in every eye, if nothing else, attesting the approach of the foe; while all present, after listening contemptuously to a series of wild and unearthly yells which announced an immediate arrival, sprang to their feet and concentrated their glances on the entrance of the saloon through which there presently burst a party of lively boys from The Ridge.

A psychological moment followed, during which the occupants of The Polka Saloon glared fiercely at the newcomers, who, needless to say, returned their hostile stares.  The chances of war, judging from past performances, far outnumbered those of peace.  But as often happens in affairs of this kind when neither side is unprepared, the desire for gun-play gave way to mirthless laughter, and, presently, the hilarious crowd from the rival camp, turning abruptly on their heels, betook themselves en masse into the dance-hall.

For the briefest of periods, there was a look of keen disappointment on the faces of the Cloudy Mountain boys as they gazed upon the receding figures of their sworn enemies; but almost in as little time as it takes to tell it there was a tumultuous lining up at the bar, the flat surface of which soon resounded with the heavy blows dealt it by the fists of the men desirous of accentuating the rhythm when roaring out: 

   “Gwine to run all night,
    Gwine to run all day,
    Bet my money on a bob-tail nag,
    Somebody bet on the bay!”