“He said he’d half a mind to tie me up for givin’ orders to the regiment, and he went on most horrible; then when he cooled down he give me a huntin’ knife, with five blades and a corkscrew, and said he would mention me in despatches. I dunno whether he did; ’t any rate I never were called to account again, so I guess he were only skeering me. Well, so long!”
Chapter Twenty Seven.
Abe and the Tiger Trap.
I had got a new tiger trap, and was displaying its beauties to some members of our Cat Club—not that this was the official name, which in full dress proclaimed itself as the Round Hill Society for the Destruction of Vermin. The mouth of the trap had a span of fifteen inches, and the steel spring almost required the weight of a twelve-stone man to flatten it down to the catch. There was a stout chain to the shank end, which could be secured to a log, and the iron lips had no teeth.
“There’s a power of grip in the toothless gums of that ’ere grinning mouth,” said old Abe Pike, who was President of the Club, by virtue of which office it was his right to point out the spots for the setting of traps. “I don’t hole with teeth nohow.”
“Quite so,” remarked Amos Topper, sourly; “your tongue’s long enough to get a clinch round anything. What I say is, give me a trap with teeth a inch long that will drive through a tiger’s shin-bone.”
“Yes; and maybe cut the foot of him right off, and leave ole dot-and-carry-three to go limpin’ away growlin’ vengeance. You ain’t got no exper’ence, Amos; and talking about tongues, if you shut your teeth down tight you might pass for a wise man.”
Amos opened his mouth wide for a retort, but nothing came out but a cloud of smoke and a grunt.