“I’ll be whipped if I understand all this!” said Joe, in utter astonishment, looking at Sneak, and then at the hounds.
“Why don’t you run?” cried Sneak, as the animal continued to advance.
“I believe you’re making fun of me,” said Joe; “that little thing can’t hurt anybody. Its a pretty little pet, and I’ve a notion to catch it.”
“What are you talking about? You know you’re afraid of it,” said Sneak, tauntingly.
“I’ll show you,” said Joe, springing upon the animal. The polecat (for such it was) gave its assailant a taste of its quality in a twinkling. Joe grasped his nose with both hands and wheeled away with all possible expedition, while the animal pursued its course towards the river.
“My goodness, I’ve got it all over my coat!” exclaimed Joe, rolling on the snow in agony.
“Didn’t I say I’d pay you for spilling the cold water on me?” cried Sneak, in a convulsion of laughter.
“Why didn’t you tell me, you rascal?” cried Joe, flushed in the face, and forgetting the Indians in his increasing anger.
“Oh, I’ll laugh myself sore—ha! ha! ha!” continued Sneak, sitting down on the snow, and laughing obstreperously.
“You long, lopsided scoundrel, you. My Irish blood is up now,” said Joe, rushing towards Sneak with a resolution to fight.