"You brute, let my son go!"
Bewildered by the blow, the half-intoxicated Frenchman fell back and Dave staggered to his feet, panting for breath. Valette had caught him by the throat, and the marks of his fingers were still visible.
"What does this mean?" demanded Mr. Morris, after a pause, in which the youth did his best to get back his breath.
In a few words Dave explained. While he was talking, Jacques Valette managed to rise to his feet. If he had been angry before, he was doubly so now. He felt for his pistol, but, luckily, the weapon was gone.
"Ha! you take my pistol," he cried. "Gif it back to me."
"I haven't your pistol," said Dave. "You didn't have one."
"I did. I want it back," growled Jacques Valette.
"You'll get no pistol here," put in James Morris. "You have no right to come to my post and raise a disturbance, and attack my son."
"I want some rum. I pay," returned the Frenchman. "I haf English money—plenty, too!"
With a leer, he put one hand into his outer garment and felt around in a pocket. Then he felt in his other pockets.