This made the old farmer fiercer than ever, and he shook his fist under Jack’s nose, roaring:
“Dang my boots! but I believe I will smash ye!”
His wife, a mild little woman with an umbrella, now grabbed him by the arm, timidly crying:
“Don’t ye git into a row, Joel! The last time you was to town you got into trouble with these here college chaps, an’ they made the perlice believe ye was crazy. Came nigh puttin’ ye inter a ’sylum.”
“Ah-he!” cried Ready. “’Tis he!” And he pointed a darting finger at the farmer. “The police have been looking for you ever since. Will somebody call an officer? Wait; I’ll do it.”
“No, ye don’t!” shouted the farmer, clutching Jack’s arm. “I’ll thrash ye if ye open your mouth to do it!”
“Oh, Joel! Joel!” quavered his wife. “You’re alwus gittin’ inter trouble! Come erway before ye git arrested!”
She tried to drag him away, but he turned on her savagely, snarling:
“Don’t be such a dratted fool, old woman! Let me alone, can’t ye!”