“They’d think ’twar a wolf,” said Peter Rood, still lying at length on the ground.
Mink had his sensibilities. On these harmonious numbers he piqued himself. He felt affronted.
“A leetle mo’, an’ I’ll break this jug over yer head. Nobody ain’t a-goin’ ter think ez my singin’ air a wolf.”
“Ye hand it hyar,” said Pete; “nobody gits a fair show at that jug but you-uns.” As he rose to his knees one foot caught in a grapevine, in his haste.
“Wait till it be empty,” said Mink, making a feint of lifting it to his mouth. Then turning suddenly, he faced Pete Rood as he staggered to his feet, and dealt a blow which sent that worthy once more prone upon the ground.
There was a jumble of excited protest from the others, each vociferously trying to quiet his companions. Mink was squaring off with clenched fists.
“Kem on,” he observed, “thar’s ground enough hyar fur ez many ez kin kiver it.”
“Look-a-hyar,” exclaimed Jerry Price, whose grief that the placidities of the festivity should be frustrated very nearly resembled a regard for law and order, “ye two boys hev jes’ got ter quit fightin’ an’ sech, an’ spilin’ the enjyement o’ the rest o’ we-uns. Quit foolin’, Mink. Ye ain’t hurt no-ways, air ye, Pete?”
“Laws-a-massy, naw,” said Pete unexpectedly. “Mink never knocked me down nohow. I jes’ cotched my foot in a grapevine. That’s all.”