“Hey!” he snorted, “what do you reckon yo're doing, anyhow? If you want to do any kicking, why kick each other, an' I'll help you! But I'll lick the whole bunch of you if you don't quite mauling me. Ain't you got no manners? Don't you know anything? Come 'round waking a feller up an' man-handling—”
“Get up!” snapped Stevenson, angrily.
“Why, ain't I seen you before? Somewhere? Sometime?” queried Hopalong, his brow wrinkling from intense concentration of thought. “I ain't dreaming; I've seen a one-eyed coyote som'ers, lately, ain't I?” he appealed, anxiously, to the others.
“Get up!” ordered Charley, shortly.
“An' I've seen you, too. Funny, all right.”
“You've seen me, all right,” retorted Stevenson. “Get up, damn you! Get up!”
“Why, I can't—my han's are tied!” exclaimed Hopalong in great wonder, pausing in his exertions to cogitate deeply upon this most remarkable phenomenon. “Tied up! Now what the devil do you think—”
“Use yore feet, you thief!” rejoined Stevenson roughly, stepping forward and delivering another kick. “Use yore feet!” he reiterated.
“Thief! Me a thief! Shore I'll use my feet, you yaller dog!” yelled the prostrate man, and his boot heel sank into the stomach of the offending Mr. Stevenson with sickening force and laudable precision. He drew it back slowly, as if debating shoving it farther. “Call me a thief, hey! Come poking 'round kicking honest punchers an' calling 'em names! Anybody want the other boot?” he inquired with grave solicitation.
Stevenson sat down forcibly and rocked to and fro, doubled up and gasping for breath, and Hopalong squinted at him and grinned with happiness. “Hear him sing! Reg'lar ol' brass band. Sounds like a cow pulling its hoofs outen the mud. Called me a thief, he did, just now. An' I won't let nobody kick me an' call me names. He's a liar, just a plain, squaw's dog liar, he—”