“I wish to see Mr Holt,” I replied, struggling hard to keep my temper.
“Ye wish to see Mister Holt? Thur’s no Mister Holt ’bout hyur.”
“No?”
“No! damnation, no! Didn’t ye hear me!”
“Do I understand you to say, that Hickman Holt does not live here?”
“You understan’ me to say no sich thing. Eft’s Hick Holt ye mean, he diz live hyur.”
“Hick Holt—yes that is the name.”
“Wall what o’t, ef’t is?”
“I wish to see him.”
“Lookee hyur, stranger!” and the words were accompanied by a significant look; “ef yur the shariff, Hick Holt ain’t at home—ye understand me? he ain’t at home.”