‘Toe the scratch, men!’ yelled Peterson; and the defenders of Waddy climbed out of the holes and presently turned a solid front to the enemy.  The Cow Flat commander, who had expected to take the place by surprise, wavered at the sight of organised opposition and called a halt at the other edge of the quarries; and invaders and besieged faced each other across the broken ground while the Cow Flat leaders held a council of war.  On the level behind the entrenched army the women of Waddy and their families were picknicking gaily on the grass, for it was accepted as a great gala day in the township, and flags of all shapes and colours, devised from all kinds of discarded garments, fluttered from tree-tops, chimneys, posts, clothes-props, and any other eminence to which a streamer could be fastened.

Perceiving their opponents reluctant to charge, Peterson’s command presently developed a fine flow of sarcasm.

‘Won’t ye stip over, ye mud-gropers?’ cried Devoy.  ’It’s a nice little riciption we’ve arranged for yez.

‘Who stole the goats?’ retorted the enemy.

‘Sure, is it the bits of goats, then?  Ye might come an’ take them if ye won’t be stayin’ all day there dishcussin’ polemics.’  Devoy was understood to be a man of learning and unequalled in argument.

‘Kidnappers an’ goat-stealers!’ yelled the foe.

Devoy posed on a rock in an oratorical attitude.

‘Ye came suspectin’ t’ have a foine aisy time the mornin’,’ he said.  ’Yez contimplated playin’ the divil wid a big shtick among the weemin an’ the childther.  Tom Moran, ye thunderin’ great ilephant av a man, d’ye think ye cud fight a sick hen on a fince?’

Moran replied with uproarious profanity and frantic pantomime, and the abuse became general and vociferous.  Devoy mounted a larger rock and commenced a scathing harangue; but a sod thrown by an invader took him in the mouth and toppled him over backwards, so that he arose gasping and spitting and clawing dirt out of his beard, and made a rush for his enemy, mad for battle; friends grappled with him and held him back, and he could only shriek defiance and rash challenges as the two parties moved along the quarries towards the log barricade.  Here the men of Cow Flat halted again and their leaders conferred, but the rank-and-file were rapidly losing temper and restraint under the black insults heaped upon them by the besieged.  They scattered along the row of logs into a long thin line and the men of Waddy followed, till the two parties were almost man to man, facing each other, exchanging jibes and gestures of contempt.

‘Moran, ye scut! don’t be skirmishin’ an’ in thriguin’ t’ get forninat a shmall man.  My meat ye are, an’ come on, ye—­ye creepin’ infor-r-mer, ye!

It was the last insult.  Moran led the charge, roaring like a goaded bullock, the two parties clashed over the logs, and in an instant comparative silence fell upon the men.  The yelling, the derisive voices, and scoffing laughter ceased, and nothing was heard but the sharp rattle of the strokes.  The fight was fierce, earnest, and bloody; all thoughts of the absurdity of the cause of contention had long since been forgotten, and the battle was as remorseless as if it were waged for an empire.