“What!”
Jim McCabe staggered back like a drunken man, with blanched face and staring eyes!
“Lord, mister, what’s the matter?” asked the Yankee.
“Noth—nothing,” stammered the ruffian, with a mighty effort to compose himself. “It’s—it’s nothing—at all. I—never mind—only a slight ner—nervous attack. I believe you said you were sitting on the grave when I discharged my piece?”
“That’s jest what I said.”
“And who was with you?”
“Me, and myself, and Jonathan Boggs. Nobody was with me.”
“You were alone, then?”
“Yas.”
“You lie!” almost screamed the profligate.