“There’s an old account to be squared atween us, but that can rist till ye become yersilf. Be the same token, are ye much hurt?”
Mike’s Irish sympathy immediately went out to the fellow, who certainly was at his mercy.
“I can’t say I am. But your clothing is wet. I heard a part of your talk with Mrs. McCaffry—God bless her splendid soul!—so suppose you come closer where you will be in front of the fire and can dry yourself, and we’ll get on better.”
It was good advice and Mike acted upon it. Standing with his back to the blaze, he looked down in the face of the criminal whose self-possession he could not help admiring.
“You remember our little foot race from the back of the Beartown post office?” said Noxon, as if referring to an incident in which he felt no particular interest.
“I do, but I niver won a prize at running and ye give me the slip.”
“Only to get in front of that beefeater with a shotgun. Why didn’t you fire when you were chasing and threatening me?”
“I couldn’t have touched off that busted gun any more than I could have fired a broom handle.”
“I made the mistake of thinking the other fellow would be equally forbearing and kept on running, till all at once, bang! he let drive. I caught a good part of the charge in that leg below the knee. It didn’t hurt much at first, and after managing to get hold of his gun I made him dance for me. It would have killed you to see him,” and at the recollection the young man laughed hard.
“His boy Jim obsarved it all and told us and we laughed,” said Mike, with a grin. “The sight must have been very insthructive.”