“On the contrary,” said Frank, “he was very quickly and easily vanquished by that man you see standing there.”
“Aw! you surprise me. I must weally ’ave a look at the gentleman,” said the consul’s clerk. “He must be simply prodigious. Hisn’t he an Hinglish gentleman?”
“No, sir,” said Frank, hardly able to control himself. “He’s an American, every inch of him, and probably the first representative of his class that you ever saw.”
The consul’s clerk fumbled in his pocket for a few minutes, and presently drew out a gold eyeglass. He had some trouble in fixing it under his right eyebrow, and when he got it placed to his satisfaction he looked in the direction Frank pointed, and met the steady gaze of Dick Lewis’s honest gray eyes. The stalwart backwoodsman, in company with his friend, Bob Kelly, was leaning against the rail, and, although the two men probably did not dream of such a thing, they presented a picture that an artist would have been glad to reproduce on canvas.
“Aw!” exclaimed the young Englishman; “what very extraordinary-looking persons. If I might be allowed the expression, I should say that they had just come hout of the woods.”
“You have hit the nail squarely on the head,” said Frank. “They are professional trappers and Indian fighters.”
The clerk started, and let his eyeglass fall in his excitement. He was so surprised that he forgot to put in his usual drawl, and substitute w for r when he spoke again.
“Trappers!” he exclaimed, “Indian fighters! I have often read of such things, and no doubt you will think me simple when I say that I never believed in their existence.”
“Why don’t you always talk as naturally as that?” thought Frank.
“You’re sure you’re not chaffing me now?” continued the clerk.