“Now, looky-here, you fellas,” he threatened. “Come any o’ yer monkey-business on me and I’ll get a club, and I’ll take it and I’ll knock yer gysh-danged heads off! Heh-heh-heh!”
This in the face of the fact that there was not a club within fifteen miles.
“Close your trap!” growled Smith Morley. “Where’s the bunch?”
“None o’ yer gysh-danged business!” was the retort.
“Don’t rub his fur the wrong way,” came Leach’s whispered warning to his partner. “Get more out of him by kidding him along.”
Morley tacked. “What’s the big idea of being so sore, Henry?” he asked cheerfully.
“Why ain’t you boys gone from here?”
“Well, we’re just still here—that’s all. Prospecting a little. Where you headed for, Henry?”
“Say something about the weather,” whispered Leach.
“How’s the weather up in the mountains, Henry?” Morley complied. “Looks a little like rain, don’t it?”