“You are mistaken. But I don’t wonder your chickens were stolen. We had all our traps taken, and we came here to get them back.”
“Gee shoo! Can’t thet boy tell a yarn, though?” chuckled the tallest of the farmers. “He must hev been a-makin’ it up fer fear we would cotch him!”
“It is no yarn!” retorted Harry, flushing up. “I am telling the plain truth. We are not the owners of this camp, and we know positively nothing of your fowls.”
“We are above taking chickens!” burst in Boxy. “We can shoot all the game we wish, and more.”
“So we can,” added Andy. “Do we look like chicken thieves?”
“Wall, I reckon a coon makes a good hen lifter!” laughed the smallest of the farmers, with a nod toward Pickles, which made the colored youth mad clear to his heels.
“Look heah!” he cried out, shaking his gun threateningly; “yo’ can’t consult me dat way, yo’ low-down white trash! A chicken lifter, indeed! Moah likely yo’ is one yourself!”
“What’s thet? Don’t yeou talk tew me!” roared the farmer, bristling up like a turkey cock. “Maybe yeou don’t know who yeou be a-talkin’ to?”
“I don’t know, nor care!” retorted Pickles. “I ain’t no chicken lifter, an’ if yo’ go fo’ to say so, yo’ll git yo’self into a big muss wid me!”
“Here, we’ve had enough talking,” put in the first man who had spoken. “Put down your guns, every one of you, and be quick about it!”