The other man evidently having lost all desire for fighting, lay still in the snow.
“Up wid yez,” Tom ordered, as he seized him by the collar and slowly dragged him to his feet.
“Now ye dirty skunk what yer got ter say fer yerself?” he demanded, as he picked up his cap and beat it against his leg to knock off the snow.
The man made no reply and Tom, rapidly losing his patience, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him around.
“Ain’t ye got no tongue?” he demanded. “Ye sure was makin’ good use of it a minute ago,” he added; and then, as the man still remained silent, he again took hold of his arm. “All right, mebby the kitty’s got yer tongue. Now ye come along wid us an’ mind yer no funny business.”
But the man hung back. “Non, me no go,” he muttered.
“Now by the saints, but ye will go and mighty quick too, or I won’t lave enough o’ ye to make a good meal fer a wolf.”
But still the man refused to move. “Me go back camp. Me ver’ seek.”
“Sick is it?” the Irishman shouted, his patience now entirely gone. “Well, here’s sumpin to make yer sicker,” and he struck the man a heavy blow on the point of the chin.
He dropped to the snow like a log and lay still.