“Arrah! fwhat is it?” inquired the impatient Irishman.
The Yankee did not vouchsafe an immediate answer; but, while polishing off the bone he held in his hand, appeared at the same time to be busy with some mental operation—perhaps straightening out the plan he had promised to reveal.
Chapter Forty Six.
A Tough Story.
For some seconds the two worthies observed a mutual silence—broken only by a formidable rattle of teeth, as large “chunks” of buffalo-meat were put through their respective masticating machines. Curious to hear the promised revelation, Wingrove and I checked our impatience, and clung to our covert among the bushes. One thing—to which their speech had incidentally adverted—was not without much significance; and had produced upon me a certain impression that was unpleasant. They appeared to know, or Sure-shot did, that at least a portion of the train was en route for the Mormon city. It is true, I had had originally suspicions of this; but the letter of Lilian had led me to hope it might be otherwise. Any destination but that.
I had commenced reflecting upon this point, when I was interrupted by the voice of Sure-shot resuming the conversation. Thus did he enter on his explanation:
“Ye see, kimrade, these Mormings, es I’ve heern, air mighty taken up wi’ sogerin’, an’ thet sort o’ thing. Ye’ve heerd talk o’ theer great bettelion. They’ll be arter these eer treppings for certing, since they hain’t much chence o’ gittin’ soger fixings out theer. We-ell, what I mean to do is to put the knepsacks off on ’em for some new improvement o’ pattern. I guess it air thet—I’ve heerd say so at the Fort—then the Morming jineral, who air the prophet hisself, an’ who’s got berrls o’ dollars—he’ll buy the knepsacks at any price. Now, de ye take, Mister Tigg?”
“Troth do I. But dev ye think yez can fool thim so aizy?”