“Take your foot from my breast!” said Jules, fiercely. “You cursed Dutchman, I will kill you. Let me up!”
“You keep still little dimes,” answered Jan, coolly. “I dinks ven a mans laff at anuder, he mus’ have a shance to ask him vy he does it. Dat ish vat I dinks.”
“Jan,” cried Ben, sternly.
“Vat you expects?”
“Let him up.”
Jan removed his foot from the breast of the prostrate man and Jules rose to his feet. His first movement was to draw a knife, and rush at the immovable figure of the Dutchman. So sudden was the attack that nothing on the part of the assailed party could have saved him, but Ben suddenly threw up his rifle, separating them. So strong was his arm, that while holding the rifle extended, the rush of the Frenchman, excited though he was, could not bend it in the least.
“Keep back!” said Ben, “or I’ll be into you with somethin’ sharper than a toothpick. What do ye want?”
“I’ll have his heart’s blood!” hissed Jules. “He has insulted me.”
“Come, it’s about an even thing. You made game of him, ye know. Then don’t make any durned fuss about it. I ain’t goin’ to stand it. Shake hands. Jan didn’t mean any thing.”
“I vas mat,” said Jan. “I’m sorry I did it now. Put vat makes him laff at me?”