“That ’ere chap’s a greelye, I strongly ’spect,” whispered one, a regular down-east Yankee.
“A what?” asked his companion.
“Why, a greelye—one o’ them ’ere Mexikin robbers.”
“Arrah, now! did yez see the rid sash?” inquired an Irishman.
“Thim’s captin’s,” suggested the Yankee. “He’s a captin or a kurnel; I’ll bet high on that.”
“What did he say, Nath, as he was running off?”
“I don’t know ’zactly—somethin’ that sounded mighty like ’spearin’ on us.”
“He’s a lanzeer then, by jingo!”
“He had better try on his spearin’,” said another; “there’s shootin’ before spearin’—mighty good ground, too, behind this hyur painted wall.”
“The old fellow was mighty frindly at first; what got into him, anyhow?”