"Hurroosh!" yelled the Irishman, standing with difficulty erect in the swaying vehicle and looking back along the road. "Noakes, if that’s the name of him, is after shaking his fist on us.  I wouldn’t say but he’s cursing mighty fine, but sure I can’t hear him for the noise of the creature. Saunders and the driver-man might be having a shindy by the looks of it.  His head might be sore on him, and he’ll not deserve it,—the man, I mean: I wouldn’t be wasting a word of pity on Saunders if so be it was him."