“That’s right, and in the part my father holds the shooting over. But,” continued Waller, showing his white teeth, “he wouldn’t want to shoot you if he were at home; you are not fat enough. Pooh! Nobody would want to shoot a boy like you.”
“Boy! Who do you call a boy?” cried the poor fellow, flushing up again.
“Why, you, of course. You are no older than I am, and I am a boy.”
“Well, never mind that. You have made me a prisoner. What are you going to do next?”
“Well, I think I am going to pick up that pistol, wherever it lies.”
“Bah!” cried the prisoner. “I only did it to scare you off. It isn’t loaded.”
“Oh!” said Waller. “Well, that’s one to you. I couldn’t tell.”
“What are you going to do with me now?” said the lad haughtily. “Chain me?”
“Chain you!” said Waller, laughing, “why, you are not a dog. I am not going to do anything with you. I don’t want you.”
“No; but you want the blood-money, I suppose.”