a good beatin' that night. The decision was all right."

The Irishman was now beaming. He had endeavored to pay a
compliment with a lie, and the prompt repudiation of the lie
served only to increase his hero-worship.

"Sure, an' a bad beatin' it was," he acknowledged, "but yeh
showed the grit of a bunch of wildcats. Soon as I can get me arm
free I'm goin' to shake yeh by the hand an' help yeh aise yer
young lady."

Frustrated in the struggle to get the crowd back, the referee
fired his revolver in the air, and the tug-of-war was on.
Pandemonium broke loose. Saxon, protected by the two big men, was
near enough to the front to see much that ensued. The men on the
rope pulled and strained till their faces were red with effort
and their joints crackled. The rope was new, and, as their hands
slipped, their wives and daughters sprang in, scooping up the
earth in double handfuls and pouring it on the rope and the hands
of their men to give them better grip.

A stout, middle-aged woman, carried beyond herself by the passion
of the contest, seized the rope and pulled beside her husband,
encouraged him with loud cries. A watcher from the opposing team
dragged her screaming away and was dropped like a steer by an
ear-blow from a partisan from the woman's team. He, in turn, went
down, and brawny women joined with their men in the battle.
Vainly the judges and watchers begged, pleaded, yelled, and swung
with their fists. Men, as well as women, were springing in to the
rope and pulling. No longer was it team against team, but all