were in strife. They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy came stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet. When he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him. He turned his angry white moustache.
―What is it now? he cried continually without listening.
―Cochrane and Halliday are on the same side, sir, Stephen cried.
―Will you wait in my study for a moment, Mr Deasy said, till I restore order here.
And as he stepped fussily back across the field his old man’s voice cried sternly:
―What is the matter? What is it now?
Their sharp