“Jack ain’t used to being made fun of, so he don’t savvy they’re talkin’ about him,” said the ragged fellow. “But don’t yuh worry none. When he does, he’ll swell up and get darned big in them gents’ eyes.”
“Big” Anderson, the florid-faced bully, took several steps toward the little man, cocked his head on one side, and carefully surveyed the stranger from his patent-leather boots to his high-crowned Stetson. Then Anderson nodded his head decisively.
“Yep, ‘Hi,’ yuh is plumb correct! It’s the most perfect specimen of a wampus on stilts I ever seen. What do yuh say we capture it an’ sell it to some museum?”
The little man suddenly realized that these remarks were directed toward himself and, very slowly, he turned and glanced at Big Anderson and Hi Stevens, the other rough. They met his eyes with broad, taunting grins.
The little man stood there, quietly watching them for a moment, then walked briskly across the road toward them. Because of his high heels, he seemed to strut like a bantam rooster. His eyes were steady and bored into those of the two crude jesters, who were taken aback at his sudden advance.
“Was yuh gents talkin’ about me?” he asked coldly.
The two recovered from their surprise and grinned mockingly, then prepared to have further fun with the “wampus.”
“We sure was. I was remarkin’ yuh is the most perfect specimen of——”
Big Anderson’s’ grin vanished, and his words came to an abrupt halt, for the little man’s coat opened like two doors on springs, and two big black guns seemed to leap from his belt into his hands. The bullies’ mouths grew slack, as they stared pop-eyed into the big, round barrels of those Colts.
“Yuh was sayin’?” the little man inquired.