"I thought so. I ain't a fool; I know when I am mad, I look mad. Do you know of any party around here who's particularly anxious to end his career, and ain't got the grit to do the job?—I would like to operate on such a chap."
"You feels like ash off you could pulverize some one, eh?"
"Humph! I'll contract to lay out the first man that durst look cross-eyed at me. I'm mad, I am—mad as thunder, and I come from Leadville, too, where they raise thunder occasionally. Bah! I wish some one would step up and kick me!"
"Well, I'm your man, if you really want a bona fide job done!" Fritz caused a pompous-looking man to say, who stood near—ventriloquially, of course. "I'm the champion patent kicker from Kalamazoo!"
The old gent from Leadville turned and gazed at the pompous-looking man a moment, his dander rising several degrees.
"Oh! so you're anxious to kick me, are you, my Christian friend? You want to kick me, do you?" he ejaculated.
"Who has said anything about kicking you, sir?" the pompous party demanded, in haughty surprise. "You'd evidently better go to bed and sleep off your 'cups,' my friend."
"I haven't drank a drop, sir, in ten years. And for you to deny expressing a desire to boot me, sir—why, man, I heard you!"
"You are a liar, sir; I said nothing of the kind. Besides, I am not in the habit of picking quarrels with strangers."
And with a shrug, the pompous man turned on his heel, and walked off, indignantly.