"It's a cert, son, as how Hank ain't out to have his back scratched that away. A wounded grizzly is mild an' dreamlike compared to him," added Broncho, with a slow droop of his left eye.
"Vy don' you blunk 'im?" grunted the Dutchman's heavy voice, addressing itself to Hank.
"Hell!" burst out the exasperated man. "If thet Dutch son of a carrion-crow gives me any durned chin-chin, I'll ram his ugly pig's-eyes outer the back of his head"; and Dutchy withered into his shell again.
"Look-a-here, partner, ain't you had 'bout enuff o' this low-grade dust-raisin'," inquired Ben loftily; still, however, clinging to his trusty capstan-bar. "'Cos thar goes four bells an' it's my wheel."
"Air you goin' to take in the slack o' them insinnivations?" demanded Hank, with dignity.
"You jest step outer the trail an' let this outfit pass, or I reckon you'll be shy considerable epidermis in another minit," growled old Ben angrily, as Hank blocked his way down the topgallant-ladder.
"Wall! Dog my cats if I stand to that!" roared Hank, and he made a wild rush at the old miner.
Ben lunged out furiously with the handspike, but the long, wiry down-easter dodged the formidable weapon with catlike activity, and the next moment they were "in holds," in the parlance of the prize-ring.
Clutched in each other's arms, they reeled across the foc's'le head like hugging bears, and then down they came with a crash on the deck.