“Nefer mind dot. Didt you some fish catch already yet? Vhere didt dese fish get you?”
“Out of the brook over yonder, and I tell you they were bub-beauties; handsomest trout you ever saw. We run across a fuf-friend of yours over there, a fellow by the name of Jim Simpson.”
“Chim Skimpson didn’t peen no friendship uf mine,” cried Carl, with a surprising display of spirit. “Efery time he sees me it iss a fight he vants to up pick. Dot Chim Skimpson didt not like me. Sometimes, ven der chance gets me, I vill hit him mit a club.”
“It was right evident to us,” said Grant, “that Mr. Simpson thought himself quite a scrapper, but I opine he’s changed his mind some.”
“I gug-guess he has,” laughed Springer. “Say, Dutchy, you should have seen this Texas longhorn polish off Jim Simpson in double-quick time. Simpson tut-tried to drive us away from the brook, claiming it belonged to his old man; but Grant pitched him into the water, and then, when he came tearing out, frothing for a scrap, Rod whipped him with a sus-single wallop on the jaw.”
“Vot?” squawked Carl, in still greater excitement, scrambling off the wagon. “Vot iss it you didt told me? Iss it dot you didt vhip Chim Skimpson? I couldt not peliefe it possibility.”
“It’s a fact,” declared Phil, “and it only took one wallop from Grant’s fuf-fist to settle his hash.”
Spluttering his delight over this piece of intelligence, the Dutch boy rushed at Rodney and clasped him in his arms.
“Mine gootness! I vill hug you for dot. Mine cracious! I couldt kiss you for dot.”
“Don’t!” entreated Rod, pushing his overjoyed admirer away with some difficulty. “I did it on my own account, although I will confess it afforded me additional satisfaction because of his boast that he had thrashed you. Is that brook on Simpson’s land?”