The advance guard of deadbeats yelled derisively.
'What's he done?' asked the hunter, stopping an individual with a bibulous nose.
'Hooked some bills that he found lying around a bit too handy—'bout fifty dollars, they say,' came the answer.
'They'll tan his hide for that,' chuckled the Captain. 'Where was it?'
'Don't know for sure. But while ago he started in to paint the Archbishop blue. Putting out some terrible talk he was.'
'They wouldn't stand that,' said the hunter.
'Bet you they wouldn't. The boys were hot at him, before the boiled 'uns[1] came round. Ter'ble thirsty day, ain't it?'
But this hint passed disregarded.
'Don't hit the bullet stoppers, boys. They're only for show, and won't stand rough handling.' The Factor's bodyguard loudly applauded this sally against the unpopular police force.
Then an old man, who was hobbling briskly along with the assistance of a couple of sticks, delivered himself of an opinion. 'I tell you, boys all, this chap's as crooked as the river. If I was asked to lend a hand to splice him to a tree, don't know that I'd refuse.'