The poor man was trying to repeat the lesson given him by the “boys” in the last town where he had stayed a few days. The boys from Hellandgone simply hugged each other, to keep from falling, in their paroxysms of laughter, at the preternatural gravity with which the above announcement of his pretensions came from the scared shoemaker’s lips. That he was scared is not a sufficiently strong word for his mental state.
As he ceased his “cowboy” oration, Shoshone Pete recovered breath enough to say:
“Rope him, Dan! Rope him! He might get away before he is initiated.”
“Oh, I am a Mason, all right, all right. Und a memper of der Sangerfest Bunt, und I haf no vish to join any more—no—I haf enough.”
Dan threw the lariat so deftly that it settled down over the poor shoemaker so that when it was drawn taut his arms were tightly pinioned to his body.
Just then Loney came back to where this scene was taking place, and he was frightened so that he could scarcely speak. But he threw himself upon his knees before the men, imploring with his thin little hands uplifted, saying:
“Don’t hurt him, please. Don’t hurt him—he is all the friend I’ve got. And he is so good to me.”
“Hello!” said Shoshone, turning, “who are you?”
“Don’t pe afrait, Loney. Dey are yust having deir leedle fun. Gentlemen, dot is little Sure-de-shot, de calf-boy.”
This caused another shout of wild laughter, and they dragged Morris into the saloon, and up to the bar; Loney and Red Eagle, the Indian, followed—the Indian in the hope of firewater, and the child to try and protect his benefactor.