“That sounds more like it, stranger. Now, what’s your name?”
“Somers.”
“What are you?”
“None of your business.”
“Whar yer gwine?”
“What’s that to you?”
“All right, stranger.”
“Now, Skinley, who are those men in yonder?” asked Somers, good-natured in spite of the circumstances of doubt, and possibly peril, which surrounded him, as he pointed to the rear room.
“Friends of mine.”
“How many are there?”