“Let us find out.”
“How?”
“I’ll show you!”
Harry disguised his voice, imitating the vernacular of a Yankee farmer.
“I say, what in darnation be yu afirin’ at us fer?” he shouted in a nasal twang. “Gosh hang it! We ain’t doin’ of anything to yu!”
The firing ceased.
There was a distant murmur of voices as if a consultation was being held.
Then a gruff voice came over the expanse of snow:
“Who are ye?”
“Wall, I’m Jim Simpson an’ this ere is my uncle Hank Small. We live up tew Concord an’ we’ve got tuckered out an’ thought mebbe we cud git yu to keep us until mornin’. We’re willin’ tu pay fer a nite’s lodgin’.”