"Shore, Jack apologizes.
"'Beg parding, Nellie,' he says; 'your least command beats four of a kind with me; but as to that ejected shorthorn, I has him all thrown out before ever you gets your stack down.'
"The Turner person picks himse'f out of the dust, an', while he feels his frame for dislocations with one hand, feebly menaces at Black Jack with t'other.
"'Some day, you rum-sellin' miscreent,' he says, 'you'll go too far with me.'
"As showin' how little these vicisitoodes preys on this Turner person, it ain't ten minutes till he's hit the middle of Wolfville's principal causeway, roarin' at the top of his lungs,
"'Cl'ar the path! I'm the grey wolf of the mountings, an' gen'ral desolation follows whar I leads!'
"Yere he gives a prolonged howl.
"The hardest citizen that ever belted on a gun couldn't kick up no sech row as that in Wolfville, an' last as long as a drink of whiskey. In half the swish of a coyote's tail, Jack Moore's got the Turner person corralled.
"'This camp has put up with a heap from you,' says Moore, 'an' now we tries what rest an' reeflection will do.'