Whereat Tim laughed loudly and called me a French spalpeen.

That was more than I could bear.
"I'll fight you for that," said I, flinging my cap on the ground and stamping a foot on it.
"Come on wid ye," retorted Tim, giving his buckle a hitch.
And there, on the lonely, wind-swept cliff, we two brothers stood up to one another.

Con, the dog, limped between us with a whine.
"You might tie the dog to the gate till we're done, Barry," said Tim.
"You're right, Tim," said I; "I will." It took no long time, but 'twas long enough to cool my blood, and when I returned to Tim I had less stomach for the fight than before.
"Was it 'Frenchman' you said ?" asked I, hoping he might say no.
"Troth and I did," said he.
But it seemed to me he too was less fiery than when he spoke last.
So we fought.

And I know not how it went.

We were a fair match.