“Ef you say another word to that gentleman thar, as is worth forty like you, there’ll be only a grease-spot left of you. Do you hear, eh?” and he shook his ponderous fist beneath his nose.
The fellow did hear, and with a muttering, “It’s cu’rous, I allow,” donned his coat with the most perfect meekness.
“Now,” said Biddon facing the rest, “if thar are any ’bout yer as wants to take up this fout, why jist step forward and get lammed.”
“Is he a Nor’wester?” asked one, breaking the perfect silence.
“What you want to know fur?”
“’Cause if he is, he can’t pass this crowd without swallerin’ them words.”
“What words?” demanded Biddon, fiercely.
“What Tom said he said.”
“Have I not explained—” I commenced.
“Now jist hold on, Jarsey,” interrupted the trapper, turning toward me with a backward wave of his hand. “Now, hold on, you, fur ef you take back anything you’ve said, shoot me, ef I don’t lick you. Ogh!” Then turning to the others he continued, “He ain’t goin’ to take back nothin’ he’s said yerabouts; and ef Tom Wilson thar don’t swaller what he said, yer’s as will make him do it.”