"Confound it!" snorted Shorty, "why in thunder don't they move us out, and give us something to do? This is hell standin' here listenin'."
A teamster, hatless and coatless, with his hair standing up, came tearing through the brush, mounted on his saddle-mule.
A chorus of yells and curses greeted his appearance. It was immense relief for the men to have something to swear at.
"Run, you egg-sucking hound.
"Run, you scald-headed dominie.
"Somebody busted a cap in your neighborhood, old white-liver."
"Seen the ghost of a dead rebel, Pilgarlic?"
"Pull back your eyes, you infernal mulewhacker. A limb'll brush 'em off."
"Look at his hair standin' up stiffer'n bristles on a boar's back."