“I’ll do nothing of the kind,” came the reply. “This is my house, and naturally I should like to get into it.”
Polly opened the shutter a crack. “Who says it is your house?” she asked.
“I’ve been living here for a month, and it’s mine by good right. The people who used to live here have gone back east, as perhaps you know, and as I came here before you did, I have the best right to the place. First come, first served, you know. If you don’t let me in by the door, I will have to climb in by one of the windows. Where’s your husband? Perhaps he’ll listen to reason.”
“It’s mesel’ who’d be glad to know where he is,” returned Polly, seriously, “and I’d be glad if you’d tell me.”
The man gave a little chuckle.
Agnes by this time had drawn near to Polly and was listening.
“I don’t believe he’s crazy, Polly,” she whispered; “he’s only impudent. Shall I call father?”
“No, I’ll manage him,” returned Polly, coolly. “Let him try to get in wanst, an’ I’ll make it hot for him. If he’s not a crazy man nor an Injun, I’m not afraid to tackle him.”
The man was now occupied in wresting the leathern hinges of the shutters from their fastenings, and seemed likely to succeed. It would be easy enough then to cut through the piece of linen which, smeared with bear’s oil, served in lieu of window-glass.
“You stop right there,” cried Polly, “or I’ll give you a taste of shot. The best thing for you is to mount yer hoss, or if you haven’t one, to go foot-back if you like to where you came from, for go you shall, or you’ll be sorry.”