"Doesn't thee like it?" asked Luke, relapsing into his Quaker dialect.
"Curse you and your Quaker lingo!" retorted Fox, his black eyes sparkling vindictively.
"It wouldn't do thee any harm to turn Quaker thyself," suggested Luke.
"I'll be bruised to death before the ride is over," growled the outlaw.
"There is one way of saving you the discomfort of the ride."
"What is that?"
"I might shoot you through the head. As the reward is the same whether I deliver you alive or dead, I have almost determined to do it."
The outlaw was made still more uncomfortable by these words. He had wholly misunderstood Luke at first, and the revelation of his real character had impressed him not only with respect, but with fear. He did not know of what this pseudo Quaker might be capable. He longed in some way to get out of his power. Force was impracticable, and he resolved to resort to finesse.
"Look here, my friend," he began.
"So you regard me as a friend? Thank you, brother Fox; I won't forget it."