“I mought’ve be mistaken,” said the now thoroughly-frightened Tom.
“That won’t do.”
“Wal, he didn’t say so,” he jerked out.
“That’ll answer. S’posen I say he is a Nor’-wester, how ’bout that?” demanded Biddon, glaring about on the rest.
There was no response. All was still as death.
“Wal, boys,” added Bill, returning to his good nature, “he ain’t a trapper; never took a skin in his born days; is a parfect gentleman, and I’ll make you ’quainted with Bill Relmond, from the States, or, as I call him, Jarsey, as fine a chap as ever tramped these parts.”
The scene that followed was singular and amusing. All crowded around me, smiling and talking and shaking hands; and the first hand I grasped was Tom Wilson’s.
“Hope you won’t mind what I said;” he spoke in a lower tone, “I orter been lammed for it, sure.”
“Don’t refer to it,” I laughed; “I suppose you were only anxious for a little amusement to pass away time.”
“That’s it ’zactly, Jarsey, you’re a trump.”