The last phrase was rendered more emphatic, by the speaker, as he uttered it, raising the flap of his blanket-coat, and exhibiting a huge bowie-knife stuck through the waistband of his trousers. I understood the hint perfectly.
“I am not the sheriff,” I answered in an assuring tone. I was in hopes of gaining favour by the declaration: for I had already fancied that my bizarre reception might be owing to some error of this kind.
“I am not the sheriff,” I repeated, impressively.
“Yur not the shariff? One o’ his constables, then, I s’pose?”
“Neither one nor other,” I replied, pocketing the affront.
“An’ who air ye, anyhow—wi’ yur dam glitterin’ buttons, an’ yur waist drawd in, like a skewered skunk?”
This was intolerable; but remembering the advice of my Nashville friend—with some additional counsel I had received over-night—I strove hard to keep down my rising choler.
“My name,” said I—
“Durn yur name!” exclaimed the giant, interrupting me; “I don’t care a dog-gone for yur name: tell me yur bizness—that’s what I wanter know.”
“I have already told you my business: I wish to see Mr Holt—Hick Holt, if you like.”