it is, maybe it is not,' 'Who knows that?' 'I say yes,' 'Hold your
tongue,' 'Be off, you slut,' 'Rattle away.'

People from the town were attracted to the place. Festus Clasby, the
dispute stirring something in his own blood, shook his fist in the long
narrow face of Mac-an-Ward. As he did so he got a tip on the heels and a
pressure upon the chest sent him staggering a few steps back. One of the
old women held him up in her arms and another old woman stood before
him, striking her breast. Festus Clasby saw the wisps of hair hanging
about the bony face and froth at the corners of her mouth. Vaguely he
saw the working of the bones of her wasted neck, and below it a long
V-shaped gleam of the yellow tanned breast, which she thumped with her
fist. Afterwards the memory of this ugly old trollop remained with him.
The youngsters were shooting in and out through the group, sending up
unearthly shrieks. Two of the men peeled off their coats and were
sparring at each other wickedly, shouting all the time, while
Mac-an-Ward was making a tumultuous peace. The commotion and the strife,
or the illusion of strife, increased. "Oh," an onlooker cried, "the
tinkers are murdering each other!"

The patient horse at last raised its head with a toss and a snort over
the rabble, and then wheeled about to break away. With the instinct of
his kind, Festus Clasby rushed to the animal's head and held him. As he
did so the striped petticoats and the tossing shawls of the women
flashed about the shafts and the body of the cart. The men raised a
hoarse roar.

A neighbour of Festus Clasby, driving up the street at this moment, was
amazed to see the great man of lands and shops in the midst of the
wrangling tinkers. He pulled up, marvelling, then went to him.