“Can’t you two tenderfeet mind your own business?” snarled Pete, halting and scowling angrily at them.
“Now, I come to think of it,” admitted Tom, “it _was_ meddlesome on my part to ask after your health. I beg your pardon.”
“Say, are you two tenderfeet trying to git fresh with me?” demanded Bad Pete, drawing himself up to his full height and gazing at them out of flashing eyes.
Almost unconsciously Tom Reade drew himself up, showing hints of his athletic figure through the folds of his clothing.
“No, Peter,” he said quietly. “In the first place, my friend hasn’t even opened his mouth. As for myself, when I _do_ try to get fresh with you, you won’t have to do any guessing. You’ll be sure of it.”
Bad Pete took a step forward, dropping his right hand, as though unconsciously, to the butt of the revolver in the holster. He fixed his burning gaze savagely on the boy’s face as he muttered, in a low, ugly voice:
“Tenderfoot, when I’m around after this you shut your mouth and keep it shut! You needn’t take the trouble to call me Peter again, either. My name is Bad Pete, and I am bad. I’m poison! Understand? Poison!”
“Poison?” repeated Tom dryly, coolly. “No; I don’t believe I’d call you that. I think I’d call you a bluff—-and let it go at that.”
Bad Pete scowled angrily. Again his hand slid to the butt of his revolver, then with a muttered imprecation he turned and stalked away, calling back threateningly over his shoulder:
“Remember, tenderfoot. Keep out of my way.”