“Why didn't you say you wanted this place?” he growled.
“What a question!” I answered. “You ask it because you don't see my beard, but I feel it pushing ahead with all its might. I didn't tell you, because we ain't exactly bosom friends, and because that is not the style in which we settlers do business. I kept dark, hoping that you would hold on a while longer, trying to get a bigger price for your place from Mr. Mechlin. I watched you, and when you let Saturday pass I knew this sweet little spot was mine,—for on Saturday I was twenty-one, and you couldn't sign your conveyance to Mr. Mechlin until Monday. To-day is Tuesday, Mr. Mathews, I shall be twenty-one years and three days old at 11 o'clock A.M. this day, if I live five hours longer.”
“I don't believe a word. You ain't twenty-one. 'Tis a lie!”
“No, it ain't,” my father said, coming from the cabin.
“Then he is a jumper. He's jumped my claim.”
“No, he ain't. Look here, Mathews,” said father, dragging his rifle along as if it was a dead cat, “you know well it is yourself who is lying when you say that. You had no right to this claim while you held the other.”
“But I put up my notice that I was going to locate here.”
“Now, don't be silly,” said father, leaning on his rifle. “It is painful to my feelings to hear a grey-headed man talk like a child. You might have put twenty notices—what of that? The law don't allow any circus performances like that, and if it did, you ain't a good enough performer to ride two horses at once.”
“I think it is a mean performance on your part, too, coming here to steal a march on me.”
“A mean performance, you say? Do you remember how I had my notices up and my stakes on the ground, six years ago, and when I went to town to bring my lumber, you jumped my claim? My boy has just barely returned the compliment.”