“Dogs!” he said, in great scorn, yet without lifting his voice.
“Hey?” cried the leader of the young thugs, clenching his fists, striking a pose, and thrusting his face toward that of the redskin. “Wot’s dat yer calls us?”
“Dogs!” repeated Old Joe Crowfoot.
“W’y, yer dirty old tan-colored mucker! How dare yer call us dat? Yer rotten old scalp-lifter! we’ll knock seventeen kinds of stuffin’s out of yer!”
The expression on the wrinkled face of the old savage was one of unspeakable scorn.
“Dogs! Buzzards! Squaws!” he flung back.
“Give it ter him, Jim!” cried the boys. “T’ump him, Jim!”
The young thug lifted his clenched fist and shook it under the nose of the old redskin.
“Take it back!” he snarled. “Swaller yer words, ur I’ll smash yer!”
“Smash him! smash him!” howled the urchins.