The merry insolence of this brought a hoarse hoot of delight from both sides. And pressing upon his foe so actively that the crippled MacLeod was put to his utmost to ward thwacks off his head and shoulders, this sprightly Cyrano of the kingdom of spruce carolled after this fashion: "Come, all ye good shillaly men. Come, lis-ten unto me: Old Watson made a walkin'-cane, And used a popple-tree. The knob it were a rouser-- A rouser, so 'twas said-- And when ye sassed old Watson He would knock ye on the head." MacLeod got a tap that made his eyes shut like the snap of a patent cigar-cutter. "Chorus!" exhorted the lyrist. And they bellowed jovially: "Knick, knock, Hickory dock, And he'd hit ye on the head!" Larry leaped back, whirled his stick so rapidly that its bright peeled surface seemed to spit sparks, and again got over the boss's indifferent guard with a whack that echoed hollowly. MacLeod was too angry to retreat. He was too angry to see clearly, and his brain rang dizzily with the blows he had received. His injured shoulder ached with the violence of his exertions. But his pride kept him up, and forced him to meet the fresh attack that Gorman made--an attack in which that master seemed to be fencing mostly to mark the time of his jeering song: "Old Watson was a good old man, And taught the Bible class, But he didn't like the story Of the jawbone of the ass. 'Why didn't he make a popple-club,' So Uncle Watson said, 'And scotch the tribe of the Phlistereens By bangin' 'em on the head?'" The blow that time staggered MacLeod. "Chorus!" called "Poet" Larry. But before he could rap his antagonist at the end of that roaring iteration the Honorable Pulaski was between them, having at last contrived to fight his way through the ranks of the crowding men. He narrowly missed getting the blow intended for the boss. He yanked the sled-stake out of the nerveless grasp of the sweating and discomfited MacLeod, and raised it. "Be careful, Mr. Britt," yelped Gorman. His mien changed from gay insouciance to bitter fury. "You've struck me once in my life, and I took it and went on my way, because I was getting your grub and your pay. You strike me to-day, and I'll split your head open like a rotten punkin!" Britt had begun to rant that he could thrash the whole Enchanted crew single-handed. He was maddened by the lamblike demeanor of his own men. But he knew a desperate and dangerous man when he saw him. At that moment Larry Gorman was dangerous. The tyrant lowered his club and backed away, muttering some wordless recrimination at which the poet curled his lip. Seeing his chance, Tommy Eye hooked his legs about the uprights and slid down the ladder with one dizzy plunge, struck the ground in squatting fashion, and shot head-first into the ranks of his protectors.