And as he spoke he seized Mark by the arm, and tried to pull him toward the house.
“Now, see here,” said the latter, pulling off his jacket; “do you want to wrestle? If you do, you’re just the fellow I am looking for.”
“No, no! no, no!” cried the young savage, jumping back, and vehemently shaking his head. “Mil-la-la, you!”
“Talk English, why don’t you?” said Mark impatiently. “I can’t understand that jargon. What do you want me to do? If you haven’t come over here to wrestle, you had better keep your hands to yourself.”
“Well, I mean you run,” urged Jim. “You run away, quick. See! Indian coming to kill!”
He pointed toward the cotton-field, and the sight that met Mark’s gaze made the cold chills creep all over him. A party of half a dozen braves were approaching the shop in single file at a rapid trot. They were all stripped to the waist, daubed with paint, wore feathers in their hair, carried knives and hatchets in their hands, and altogether their appearance was enough to frighten any boy who had never seen Indians in war costume before. The foremost warrior was the one who had been pulled down by the dogs. When he discovered Mark, he placed his hand to his mouth and gave the war-whoop.
“Jeemes’ River!” was Mark’s mental ejaculation (that was what he always said when he was astonished or alarmed). “Don’t I wish I was somewhere?”
“See, you white boy!” exclaimed Jim, who was so excited and terrified that he could scarcely stand still. “You run, or Indian kill.”
“Keep your hands off,” said Mark, as the young wrestler once more tried to push him toward the house. “This is my father’s plantation. I’ve more right here than they have. I haven’t done any thing to be ashamed of, and I shan’t run a step.”
The savages had by this time reached the fence that inclosed the cotton-field, and there they stopped to listen to a speech from their leader, who emphasized his remarks by flourishing his knife and hatchet above his head and yelling furiously.