Seth Jones was a man whose character could not be read in an hour, or day. It required a long companionship with him to discover the nicely shaded points, and the characteristics which seemed in many cases so opposite. United with a genial, sportive humor and apparent frankness, he was yet far-seeing and cautious, and could read the motives of a man almost at a glance. With a countenance which seemed made expressly to veil his soul, his very looks were deceptive; and, when he chose to play a certain role, he could do it to perfection. Had one seen him when the conversation above recorded took place, he would have unhesitatingly set him down as a natural-born idiot.
“How you like to burn, eh, Yankee?” asked a savage, stooping and grinning horribly in his face.
“I don’t know; I never tried it,” replied Seth with as much nonchalance as though it was a dinner to which he was referring.
“E-e-e-e! you will try it, Yankee.”
“Don’t know, yet; there are various opinions about that p’raps. When the thing is did I mought believe it.”
“You, sizzle nice—nice meat—good for burn!” added another savage, grasping and feeling his arm.
“Just please to not pinch, my friend.”
The savage closed his fingers like iron rods, and clenched the member till Seth thought it would be crushed. But, though the pain was excruciating, he manifested not the least feeling. The Indian tried again and again, till he gave up and remarked, expressive of his admiration of the man’s pluck.
“Good Yankee! stand pinch well.”
“Oh! you wan’t pinching me, was you? Sorry I didn’t know it. Try again, you mought p’raps do better.”