Obed seemed to be in a profound slumber, but it was a peculiarity of our Yankee friend to wake at the least touch. This, of course, was not known to Dick Fletcher, who felt that there would be no risk in a careful exploration of Obed's pockets.
He thrust his hand into one of the Yankee's pockets with the practiced skill of a pickpocket, when an entirely unexpected result followed.
"Why, you skunk, what in creation are you about?" exclaimed Obed, suddenly seizing Fletcher by the throat.
"Let me go!" said Fletcher, struggling violently, but ineffectually, to free himself.
"Not till you've told me what you are after."
"Let go, and I'll tell you."
Obed loosened his grip, saying sternly, "Are you a pickpocket, my enterprising friend, or what is the meaning of all this business?"
"You had better not insult me!" said Fletcher angrily. "I'm no more a pickpocket than you are."
"Then what is the meaning of your little game? Maybe you got up in your sleep."
"No, I didn't. I just waked up, and thought I'd like to have a smoke, but had no matches. I thought you might have some in your pocket."