Krozenski had gone in with the full intention of killing O’Neill; and O’Neill was equally intent upon performing the same kindly office for the Polander. Each man was backed by his corps of partisans. The tumult that developed defies powers of pen and pencil to depict, and, in point of vocal and physical performances, exceeded all that the agent had ever heard or read of in the same line at famous Kilkenny, or equally famous Billingsgate. Bricks and stones were the principal missiles employed; pistols and knives played their part; heads were broken, and faces and noses contused; crabsticks crossed; eyes draped in beautiful black and blue, teeth lost, shins bruised, chops swollen, and shillalahs fell with telling effect. The shouts and cries that rent the night air were guttural Teutonic, Gallic, Celtic, Anglo-Saxon, Welsh, Polish, and sometimes a mixture of all, perfectly unintelligible to any of the nationalities participating. Dust arose in clouds, and was almost suffocating in density. The whole affair much resembled the common idea of a miniature bedlam, and was in truth a small pandemonium let loose—chaos come again. [Illustration: “_Jolly noise! Jolly noise!! Jolly noise!!!_”] When the turbulence was at its highest pitch, while it was difficult to think of, and utterly impossible to hear anything, excepting the medley of noises immediately surrounding him, McKenna’s attention was drawn to the part taken in the fight by the aged grandam of Mrs. Krozenski, who seemed greatly to enjoy the rumpus going on around her. Jumping hither and thither, like a veritable witch without her broomstick, the little, frisky old lady, her broad lace ruffles and straggling gray hair flying about her withered face, with shrill tone and violent gesture urged on her countrymen to the contest, and added at least her share to the general disorder. At last, when the police had arrived, and been driven away with clubs, when the combat had been resumed, and shouts and shots and rattling of many sticks again filled the air, the grandmother of the bride climbed upon the back of a common chair, which had been brought in by her granddaughter, and standing as erect as possible, she loudly clapped her bony hands and screamed in her cracked treble voice: “Oh, jolly noise! _jolly noise!!_ JOLLY NOISE!!!” This genuine burst of enthusiasm roused the energies of the detective, thus far held firmly in reserve, and he drew his revolver and fired three shots, in rapid succession, into the floor, directly under the crone’s perch, shouting in a double-bass voice, as loudly as he could, after each explosion: “Peace!” “_Peace!!_” “PEACE!!!”