Tusk blinked at him in sheer perplexity. "What's yoh idee of finish?" he asked.
"I'll show you in a minute. Get up!"
"That don't sound like good sense to me," Tusk whined. "Say, how'd you do that, anyhow? I've knocked a lot with fellers, but—"
There was a spirit of forgiveness in the voice, a whisper of reconciliation, but Brent wanted his victory to be absolute. He appeared to go into a towering rage, screwing his face into a distorted horror, stamping about like a demon, and disfiguring himself as much as possible—trying, Chinese fashion, the experiment of terrifying the enemy into abject submission, and having a great deal of fun throughout.
Growing more and more superstitious about this mysteriously delivered blow from a man of smaller stature, and his apparent confidence to do it again any number of times, Tusk remained in a sitting position and stared. He became gradually impressed with a feeling that here was his master, and the more Brent raved the more he cringed. At last he whined:
"I don't want no moh!"
"Will you come back with me and tell Tom Hewlet what I say?"
"Yep."
"And make him believe it?"
"He's durn sure to believe it when I tell 'im 'bout this heah!"