“Then, you’re out on the distance tew,” he said. “It’s sca’ce ten miles to the fort.”
“It ain’t, eh?” answered the one called Revel, who stopped with a piece of venison half-way to his mouth, and eyed the questioner. “Sca’ce ten mile! Who don’t know that?”
“You said, twenty.”
One or two of the group indulged in sneering chuckles.
“I say so yit,” returned Revel. “Brom’s got to pass over the ground twice afore he gits back here, ain’t ’e?”
“Yees needn’t ax dthat, Will,” said the Irishman. “Our laider has swall’ed too much venison entoirely, an’ it’s druv all dthe sinse he had in his head down to his belly. Dthe thruth, as sure’s me father wur a docthur!”
The laugh which went round at Hulet’s expense, was of course not over-relished by the latter.
“That ar’ ye call wit—Irish wit, I s’pose,” returned Hulet unable to conceal anger. “But I don’ know ’bout the ‘doctor.’ Who ever heerd of a durned Irishman bein’ a doctor.”
“Who is it?” queried the Irishman, fiercely. “I’ll take a joke but not an insoolt to me name, ye domd gossoon. Me father was a docthur, though, an’ I, Tim Devine, am able to docthur y’ur face, for the slandhur of y’ur tongue!” He aimed a blow at Hulet, as he spoke, which the latter parried.
“Hold on—this ’ere ain’t a-goin’ to do, now,” said Revel, rushing between them. “This ain’t the time for a row. Put it off. We’ve got to start pretty soon for the lake-shore. Thar may be Injuns skulking around, an’ we ain’t goin’ ter be sech headlong fools as to direct ’em here.”