Promptly enough the mountaineer lay down until the water rippled around his chin and floated his flaxen beard. Some moments of peculiar silence followed, broken only by the lapsing gurgle and murmur of the brook.
Dufour, with arms as steady as iron bars, kept the heavy gun bearing on the gasping face of the unwilling bather, whilst at the same time he was dangerously fingering the trigger. The stout, short figure really had a muscular and doughty air and the heavy face certainly looked warlike.
“Stranger, a seein’ ’at ye’ve got the drap onto me, ’spose we swear off an’ make up friends?” The man in the water said this at length, in the tone of one presenting a suggestion of doubtful propriety.
“Don’t hardly think you’ve cooled off sufficiently, do you?” responded Dufour.
“This here’s spring warter, ye must ’member,” offered the mountaineer.
The gun was beginning to tire Dufour’s arms.
“Well, do you knock under?” he inquired, still carelessly fumbling the trigger.
“Great mind ter say yes,” was the shivering response.
“Oh, take your time to consider, I’m in no hurry,” said Dufour.