“What's the row here?” said Ed Church, walking straight to the little huddle about Fan Brown. His tones were brittle and bold; a note of ready war ran through them. Not at all the voice in which he talked to Lide. “I understand somebody's lookin' for me. Who is it?”
“It's me, by G—d! You killed my dog last summer, and I'm goin'——”
“No, you ain't,” said Ed, interrupting; “you ain't goin' to do a thing. You may be the bully of Hinckley, Fan Brown, but you can't scare me. Your dog was killin' sheep; he was a good deal like you; but bein' a dog I could shoot him.”
“Yes, and I ain't goin' back to Hinckley until I maul you so you won't shoot another dog as long as you live.”
“Enough said!” replied Ed, “come right down in the hollow back of the horse sheds, where the folks won't see, and do it.”
Just then a small, meagre man approached. He walked with a lounging gait, and when he spoke he had a thin, mealy voice.
“What's the matter here?” piped the meagre little man.
His name was Dick Bond. He was renowned widely as a wrestler. Gladiators had come from far and near, and at town meetings and barn raisings, wrestled with little Dick Bond. Where a hundred tried not one succeeded.
He had not lost a “fall” for four years. His skill had given birth to a half proverb, and when somebody said he would do something, and somebody else doubted it, the latter would observe with laughing scorn: “Yes; you'll do it when somebody throws Dick Bond.”
Such was the fell repute of this invincible little man that when his shrill, light voice made the inquiry chronicled, a silence fell on the crowd and no one answered.