Bricklayers, and the picked braves, huge and heavy, were taking
their positions along the rope. They kicked heel-holds in the
soft earth, rubbed their hands with the soil from underfoot, and
laughed and joked with the crowd that surged about them.

The judges and watchers struggled vainly to keep back this crowd
of relatives and friends. The Celtic blood was up, and the Celtic
faction spirit ran high. The air was filled with cries of cheer,
advice, warning, and threat. Many elected to leave the side of
their own team and go to the side of the other team with the
intention of circumventing foul play. There were as many women as
men among the jostling supporters. The dust from the trampling,
scuffling feet rose in the air, and Mary gasped and coughed and
begged Bert to take her away. But he, the imp in him elated with
the prospect of trouble, insisted on urging in closer. Saxon
clung to Billy, who slowly and methodically elbowed and
shouldered a way for her.

"No place for a girl," he grumbled, looking down at her with a
masked expression of absent-mindedness, while his elbow
powerfully crushed on the ribs of a big Irishman who gave room.
"Things'll break loose when they start pullin'. They's been too
much drink, an' you know what the Micks are for a rough house."

Saxon was very much out of place among these large-bodied men and
women. She seemed very small and childlike, delicate and fragile,
a creature from another race. Only Billy's skilled bulk and
muscle saved her. He was continually glancing from face to face
of the women and always returning to study her face, nor was she
unaware of the contrast he was making.