When we arrived at the bottom of the glen, the Murphys and the Caseys, including their respective followers, ranged themselves on either side of a long line, which was drawn between the belligerent powers with the but-end of one of the standards. Exactly on this line was I placed. The word was then put to me in full form--“Whether will you side with the dacent Caseys, or the blackguard Murphys?” “Whether will you side with the dacent Murphys, or the blackguard Caseys?” “The potato for ever!” said I, throwing up my caubeen, and running over to the Murphy standard. In the twinkling of an eye we were at it; and in a short time the deuce an eye some of us had to twinkle. A battle royal succeeded, that lasted near half an hour, and it would probably have lasted above double the time, were it not for the appearance of the “master,” who was seen by a little shrivelled vidette, who wanted an arm, and could take no part in the engagement. This was enough--we instantly radiated in all possible directions, so that by the time he had descended through the intricacies of the glen to the field of battle, neither victor nor vanquished was visible, except, perhaps, a straggler or two as they topped the brow of the declivity, looking back over their shoulders, to put themselves out of doubt as to their visibility by the master. They seldom looked in vain, however, for there he usually stood, shaking at us his rod, silently prophetic of its application on the following day. This threat, for the most part, ended in smoke; for except he horsed about forty or fifty of us, the infliction of impartial justice was utterly out of his power. [Illustration: PAGE 763-- Usually stood, shaking at us his rod]