when, weak and unskilful, he was an easy prey for his victor.

"That's for the one ye gave me two years ago, Martin Quinlan," cried
O'Connell, as he closed that youth's right eye, and stepped nimbly
back from a furious counter.

"And it's a bloody nose ye'll have, too," as he drove his left with
deadly precision on Quinlan's olfactory organ, staggering that
amazed youth, who, nothing daunted, ran into a series of jabs and
swings that completely dazed him and forced him to clinch to save
further damage. But the fighting blood of O'Connell was up. He beat
Quinlan out of the clinch with a well-timed upper-cut that put the
youth upon his back on the green,

"Now take back that 'beggar-man's' son!" shouted O'Connell.

"I'll not," from the grass.

"Then get up and be beaten," screamed O'Connell. The boys danced
around them. It was too good to be true. Quinlan had thrashed them
all, and here was the apparently weakest of them--white-faced
O'Connell--thrashing him. Why, if O'Connell could best him, they all
could. The reign of tyranny was over.

"Fight! Fight!" they shouted, as they crowded around the combatants.

Quinlan rose to his feet only to be put back again on the ground by
a straight right in the mouth. He felt the warm blood against his
lips and tasted the salt on his tongue. It maddened him. He
staggered up and rushed with all his force against O'Connell, who