Hartigan did not move. As the big brute edged in, not at all quickly, for the fight was scarcely yet on, Hartigan landed a swift football drop kick under the hand that held the knife. The weapon was dashed up to the ceiling and stuck shivering in the logs, while its owner stumbled and fell with a growl of pain, one hand hanging helpless. Two other men rushed to the attack. They had no weapons, and the Preacher man[oe]uvred to take them singly. With two chops and an undercut he laid them on their backs, and the remaining men refrained from declaring war. "Sure now," said the Preacher, as he looked calmly around, "I regret to have the meeting open so unrestful, when it was my intention to start it with a prayer, followed by a hymn with all of you joining in. But you seemed to want it this way and, of course, I had to humour you. Now I will begin by pouring out a drink offering on the altar of God." He stepped toward the keg. It was unopened. He raised it in his hands and dashed it down on the floor. It bounded up unhurt. Realizing his purpose for the first time, the men gave vent to savage oaths backed by an assertion of property rights. Then, seeing that he was undeterred, they set upon him with a rush. Jim, it must be confessed, found a new joy in that new attack. It gave him a chance to work off his superabundant energy. The confined space of the cabin was in his favour. He blocked all attempts to encompass him, while his mighty arms did terrific execution, and when the finish came it showed the would-be revellers lying around in various positions eloquent of defeat. "Sure, it's mighty sorry I am, but I have to tend to my job." Going to the fireplace, and picking up one of the bricks used to support the logs, he smashed in the head of the keg and spilled the odorous contents on the floor. The final splash he threw toward the fire, expecting to see it blaze into a blue flame, but it acted as water and the room was filled with an evil stench. The Preacher knew what it meant; his contemptuous "Humph!" expressed it all. "Where are you going?" he demanded, as the tallest of the ruffians moved to the door. "You mind your own business. I am going home," was the answer. "Come back and join us, we're going to have a prayer meeting," and Jim stepped over to the door. "Now get down on your knees, all of ye," and he himself kneeled. The little man and two of the women followed his example. "Get down on your knees!" the Preacher thundered to those standing. The big fellow had got a stick of firewood for a weapon and, despite his crippled right hand, was disposed to fight. "Oh, ho! shillelah play," chuckled Hartigan, "that's an ould, ould game with me."