"'What's wanting, my friend?'
"'I want you to just tumble down from that saddle, and pay toll,' says the old sinner. 'No minister passes this corner without stopping to take a thrashing from these.'
"Here the blacksmith held up two clinched fists, hard and black as sledge-hammers.
"'No nonsense; but get off, I say,' he bellowed out.
"Brother Blank had a heavy whip in his hand, with a short plump lash, which he began to play with.
"'Get down, I say!'
"Brother Blank got down and laid the bridle on the neck of his horse.
"'Now step out here and take it like a man,' says the blacksmith. 'The last two ministers were such puny fellers, there was no fun in thrashing them; but you're something worth while. Stand out, I say.'
"While he was talking, the fire-blowing wretch rolled up his red flannel shirt-sleeves to the elbow, and went at Brother Blank with both fists.
"Now, sisters, Brother Blank is a true Christian—meek as a lamb in prayer and persuasion, but the sight of that audacious old sinner riled up the natural man in him awfully. He stepped back. His right arm swung out, and that whip-lash curled round the fellow's bronzed neck like a garter snake. Again and again the lash fell, now across the red face, now across the naked arms, but generally left great red welts, like the bars of a fiery gridiron, across his chest.