“No, sir,” replied Watson, “and what’s more, we don’t need one.”
“Oh, you don’t eh?—well, then, you had better both get.”
He pointed across the creek and Watson’s purple face flushed a deeper shade.
“Look here,” he commanded, “we’re your friends. We want to do you Bushwhackers a favor. Is this any way to treat us, sir?”
“We’re not needin’ friends,” returned Paisley. “Now, you chaps get while you’re able to walk.”
“We’ll go when we’re ready, not before,” growled the agent, putting himself on the defensive.
Paisley’s long right arm shot forward and Watson’s burly form executed a half somersault on the moss. Simpson sprang in, but Paisley’s hand gripped him by the windpipe.
“So you must learn your lesson, too, eh?” he said grimly, and sent the teacher to earth with a straight left from the shoulder.
Watson struggled erect with a groan.
“You’ve broken my arm,” he moaned. “You’ll pay for this. Nobody can assault Thomas W. O. Watson with impunity, sir. When Colonel Hallibut has you Bushwhackers cornered you will need me, and what if I should remember this—this assault, then?”