Ah, ye bloody, murtherin' nagers! go 'way wid yer long poles.

I'd fight a hundred av the loikes av ye wid ownly a shillelah." One audacious thrust of a lance he parried very dexterously with his bayonet, at the same time screeching defiantly and scornfully in the face of his hideous assailant.

But this fellow's impudent approach was too much to be endured, and Sweeny proceeded at once to teach him to keep at a more civil distance.
"Oh, ye pokin' blaggard!" he shouted, and actually let drive with his musket.

The ball missed, but by pure blundering one of the buck-shot took effect, and the brave retreated out of the melee with a sensation as if his head had been split.

Some time later he was discovered sitting up doggedly on a rock, while a comrade was trying to dig the buckshot out of his thick skull with an arrow-point.
"I'll tache 'em to moind their bizniss," grinned Sweeny triumphantly, as he reloaded.