“Robbed yer and tried to do for yer? Did they, now! Well, they do look a pair of bad uns, don’t they, my sons?—bad as these three looks good and innercent and milky.”
“Hear him!” growled Redbeard fiercely. “Talking like that, with my poor mate suffering from a wound like this, pardners,” and he pointed to his companion’s leg.
“Get out!” roared the Cornishman scornfully; “put that sore prop away; you’re talking to men, not a set of bairns. Think they’re going to be gammoned by a bit of play-acting?”
There was another loud murmur of excitement, the occupants of the canvas building crowding up closer, evidently thoroughly enjoying the genuine drama being enacted in their presence, and eager to see the dénouement, even if it only proved to be a fight between the two giants taking now the leading parts.
The man with the red beard felt that matters were growing critical for the accusers, while public opinion was veering round in favour of the prisoners; and resting one hand upon his hip, and flourishing his pipe with the other, he took a step forward, his eyes full of menace, and faced the Cornishman.
“Look ye here, old un,” he growled, “I’m a plain, straightforward, honest man, as has come up here to try and get a few scraps o’ red gold.”
“Same here, my lad.”
“And I want to know whether you mean all that ’ere nasty, or whether you mean it nice?”
“Just as you like, my son,” cried the Cornishman. “You’ve told the company here that my two young friends tried to rob and settle you. I tell the company that it’s as big a lie as was ever spoke.”
“Well!” growled the man again, and he looked round at his companions; “of all—”