"Jest you backwater some," said Ben coolly, pulling out a capstan-bar from the rack as Hank squared up to him.
Hank drew back uncertainly, for there was a nasty gleam in the old miner's eyes.
"Crikey! but 'e's got the bulge on you, Hank, proper," grinned the cockney appreciatively.
"I would shorely like to savvy what for you two lunattics is a-howlin' for blood?" drawled Broncho, as he slowly proceeded to fill his pipe.
"This half-baked sluice-robber has the hell-freezin' nerve to insinnivate that my old woman don't bank none on my vartues," explained the injured benedict ferociously.
Jack had been holding himself in up till now well enough, but this last was too much for him, and, doubling up, he burst into a roar of laughter, in which old Ben joined heartily, taking for granted that the laugh was on his side of the deck.
"I guess Ben wouldn't think it so durned funny, if he'd drop that handspike an' stand up like a man," snarled Hank.
"Book-sports allows as how it's women as causes mos' of the skin-ticklin' in this ornery globe, an' I reckon they shore hits the bull's-eye this time," remarked Broncho, sagely.
"What's the row?" broke in Curly excitedly, coming up the topgallant-ladder in two bounds.
"W'y, swipe me if ole Ben ain't been an' hurted Hank's delikit feelin's," explained the cockney.