"You—you—you—you New York hurrah boy! You foundling! You vagabond! You vagrant! You brat! You beggar! Will you never be a lady? To go and shake hands with that ruffian!"
"Sure, uncle, that's nothing new; I have shaken hands with you often enough!"
"Demmy, you—you—you New York trash, what do you mean by that?"
"Of course I mean, uncle, that you are as rough a ruffian as ever Donald Bayne was!"
"Demmy, I'll murder you!"
"Don't, uncle; they have an uncivilized way here of hanging murderers," said Cap, shaking herself free of Old Hurricane's grasp, and hastening out of the court-room to mount her horse and ride home.
One night after tea, Capitola and her uncle occupied their usual seats by the little bright wood fire, that the chilly evening and keen mountain air made agreeable, even in May.
Old Hurricane was smoking his pipe and reading his paper.
Cap was sitting with her slender fingers around her throat, which she, with a shudder, occasionally compressed:
"Well, that demon Black Donald will be hanged the 26th of July," said Old Hurricane, exultingly, "and we shall get rid of one villain, Cap."