“What goes on here?” asked a chunky, heavily-bearded trapper, dressed in a fringed buckskin suit.
“Fagan’s ketched the young sprout what heaved him in the swamp,” explained the man Pete. “He’s goin’ ter give him a goin’ over.”
“Aw shucks, Pat,” protested the trapper, “he’s only a kid. Don’t use him up!”
“Now jest keep yer big beak outen this, Sandy!” retorted the vengeful Pat, who had by this time recovered his breath.
“Sandy’s right,” broke in another of the crowd. “He’s jest a young gaffer. Tain’t sportin’ to smash him up.”
“Be fair, Pat!” yelled someone else.
“Keep yer blabs shut, every last man of yuh!” bellowed Fagan, doubly enraged by this interference.
“Well, if ye must play the bully,” went on the trapper known as Sandy, “go over yonder an’ fight, aside the shanty, where there’s a good bit more room.”
Fagan turned and stripped off his flannel shirt. His huge, hairy arms and his big, knotted hands looked dangerous.
“I kin give him all the fight he kin swaller right har,” he snarled. “’Fraid if I give him more room, he’ll turn tail an’ run.”