THE BATTLE IN THE YARD
“Separate them!” cried the governess, reining the pony in; whilst little
Lord Gawdor, forgetting everything but the fight in progress, clapped
his hands, calling out alternately: “Go it, Pipe-stems—give it him,
Carrots!” as Patsy or his long antagonist came upwards in the fray.
Doris felt frightened, but interested; as for Selina, she was in the
bottom of the cart and was fast asleep covered with rugs.
“Separate them!” cried Miss Kiligrew to the cook; “don’t stand there
staring—separate them.”
“Faith, it’s easy to say separate them,” answered the cook, highly
incensed at Miss Kiligrew’s dictatorial manner. “Separate them
yourself.”
Scarcely had she spoken when Patsy by a supreme effort got Micky under,
and kneeling on his long arms began to screw his knuckles against the
jaws of his victim. The bully had often done the same to smaller boys,
but now that the torture was applied to himself he did not like it in
the least.
“Who’s the son of the ould dunkey that grazes on the common? Who’s the
son of the ould dunkey that grazes on the common?” cried Patsy. “Answer
up quick, or I’ll screw you worse. Who’s the son of the ould dunkey that
grazes on the common?”
“I am!” screamed Micky, unable to endure the agony. “Let me up—you’re
murthering me.”
“Who’s ashamed of his son?” cried Patsy, continuing the torture, and
delighted to think that little Lord Gawdor and Miss Doris and the
governess were there to listen to it all. “Who’s ashamed of his son?”
“The ould dunkey is!” shrieked Micky. “It’s I that’ll be murthering you
some dark night for this.”
“Name the biggest thief in the country,” continued Patsy, undismayed by
the other’s threats; “out with his name before the ladies and the
gintleman.”
“Micky Finnegan!” roared Micky. “Mrs Kinsella, ma’am, pull him off me!”
“Lave him be, Patsy,” cried Mrs Kinsella, who was enjoying the fun as
much as little Lord Gawdor.
“I will in a minit, when I gets his family tree out of him,” replied
Patsy. “Answer up, Micky Finnegan—who was your gran’mother?”
“The ould goose,” blubbered Micky, who was now in tears.
“Was she always good to you?”
“She were.”
“Ain’t you ’shamed of yourself for cartin’ her about on your shoulder to
sell her when she was dead of ould age and starvation?”
“I am.”
“Did she tell you before she died you weren’t fit to black the boots of
Patsy Rooney?”
“She did.”
“Did she spake the truth?”
“She did.”
“Up you get,” said Patsy; “and off with you and ’pologise to your ould
father for havin’ such a son.”
He released Micky, who sprang to his feet and tore out of the yard
shouting what he wouldn’t do next time he caught Patsy alone on a dark
night.
“Bravo, Carrots!” cried Lord Gawdor.
“Bravo, Carrots!” cried Doris, as Patsy, triumphant and grinning with
delight, was led off into the kitchen by the ear.
“Robert! Doris!” cried Miss Kiligrew; “what would your grandmother say
if she could hear you?”
“I dunno!” replied Lord Gawdor; “but I bet she’d have laughed if she’d
heard that long chap saying _his_ grandmother was a goose.”
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