“They’re all right; we’ve got a good revolver.”
“Let me look at ’em; I’d like to be sure that they’re the right kind to plug redskins with.”
The boys promptly produced their weapons, and passed them over to Sam, who examined each in turn, and then handed a couple to his companion.
“I obsarve a watch-chain onto ye,” continued Sam; “I hope you aint so dishonorable es to carry a chain without a watch at t’other end to sorter balance it.”
“I’ve got my father’s time-piece with me,” replied Tommy, producing the fine chronometer, and passing it to the tramp, who extended his hand for it.
Sam turned it over in his hand with the same attentive interest he had shown in the case of the revolvers. The single weapon he had shoved in his hip-pocket. He held the timepiece to his ear, listened to its ticking, surveyed the face, and then deliberately slipped it into his trousers pocket, catching the chain in the hole through which he had previously run a ten-penny nail to give his garments the right fit.
“How does that look on me?” he asked, with a grin, of his friend.
“It fits you bootiful,” replied Ragged Jim, “which the same is the case with these weapons and myself.”
“Good-day, sonnies,” said Snakeroot Sam, doffing his dilapidated hat with mock courtesy.
“But,” said the dismayed Tommy, “that’s my watch.”