“Wal,” drawled the Yankee, scratching his head, “I s’pect I been in this vicinity several minutes, ef not longer.”
“Have you seen any thing while you were here?”
“See’d any thing? Wal, not a great deal. It’s rayther tew darkish, like, tew see any thing, ain’t it, mister?”
“I—I don’t know. Did you hear any thing, then?”
Jonathan Boggs took a step backward, hung his tall hat on the back part of his head, thrust his hands into his pockets, and gave the inquisitive man a most searching look.
“See here!” he exclaimed, “what dew you take me for?”
“Eh?”
“Are you pokin’ fun at me, or not?”
“Most assuredly not!”
“Then what’s the matter—say? You ax more foolish questions than a child ’ud think of, and I won’t stand it. I’m Jonathan Boggs of Maine, I am, and I’m a full-fledged game-chicken with an eye to biziness. I’m a hull team, with an extra hoss for up-hill emergencies, and ef you think you can out-pull me, hitch on behind and stretch yourself. I’m a reg’lar screecher, and can whip my weight in famished bed-bugs, without the least assistance from any quarter whatsumever, and drat my skin ef I cain’t pump the cuss dry as says I can’t squint the bark off of a beech-limb! I’ve got a powerful reach; I can pull a nigger’s hair at ten yards!”