“’You lie, big Nebuchodonosor! it’s not—­this is all fair play, you big baste!  Fair play, Sampson!—­by the same a-token, here’s to jog your memory that it’s the Fair day of Knockimdowny!  Irish Fair play, you whale!  But I’ll whale you’ (crack, crack, whack).

“‘Oh! oh!’ shouted the miller.

“’Oh! oh! is it?  Oh, if I had my scissors here till I’d clip your ears off—­wouldn’t I be the happy man, any how, you swab, you?’ (whack, whack, crack).

“‘Murther! murther! murther!’ shouted the miller.  ‘Is there no help?’

“’Help, is it?—­you may say that (crack crack):  there’s a trifle—­a small taste in the milling style, you know; and here goes to dislodge a grinder.  Did ye ever hear of the tailor on horseback, Sampson? eh? (whack, whack).  Did you ever expect to see a tailor on horseback of yourself, you baste? (crack).  I tell you, if you offer to lie down, I’ll annigulate you out o’ the face.’

“Never, indeed, was a miller before or since so well dusted; and, I dare say, Neal would have rode him long enough, but for an O’Hallaghan, who had gone into one of the houses to procure a weapon.  This man was nearly as original in his choice of one as the tailor in the position which he selected for beating the miller.  On entering the kitchen, he found that he had been anticipated:  there was neither tongs, poker, nor churn-staff, nor, in fact, anything wherewith he could assault his enemies; all had been carried off by others.  There was, however, a goose, in the action of being roasted on a spit at the fire:  this was enough; Honest O’Hallaghan saw nothing but the spit, which he accordingly seized, goose and all, making the best of his way, so armed, to the scene of battle.  He just came out of an entry as the miller was once more roaring for assistance, and, to a dead certainty, would have spitted the tailor like a cook-sparrow against the miller’s carcase, had not his activity once more saved him.  Unluckily, the unfortunate miller got the thrust behind which was intended for Neal, and roared like a bull.  He was beginning to shout ‘Foul play!’ again, when, on turning round, he perceived that the thrust had not been intended for him, but for the tailor.

“‘Give me that spit,’ said he; ’by all the mills that ever were turned, I’ll spit the tailor this blessed minute beside the goose, and we’ll roast them both together.’

“The other refused to part with the spit, but the miller seizing the goose, flung it with all his force after the tailor, who stooped, however, and avoided the blow.

“‘No man has a better right to the goose than the tailor,’ said Neal, as he took it up, and, disappearing, neither he nor the goose could be seen for the remainder of the day.