The shaggy young Swede wagged his head. "He t'ink it was safe to kick
Conroy, but it aindt," he observed profoundly. "No, it aindt safe."
"He got vat he asked for. . . . Didn't know vat he go up againdst . . . No, it aindt—it aindt safe. . . Maybe vi'sh he aindt so handy mit his feet now."
They were all talking; their mixed words came to Conroy in broken sentences. He stared at them a little wildly, realizing the fact that they were admiring him, praising him, and afraid of him. The blood rose in his face hotly.
"You fellers talk," he began, and was disconcerted at the manner in which they all fell silent to hear him—"you talk as if I'd killed him."
"Well! . . . Ach was!"
He faced their smiles, their conciliatory gestures, with a frown.
"You better stop it," he said. "He fell—see? He fell an' stove his head in. An' any feller that says he didn't——"
His regard traveled from face to face, giving force to his challenge.
"Ve aindt goin' to say nodings!" they assured him mildly. "You don't need to be scared of us, Conroy."
"I'm not scared," he said, with meaning. "But look out, that's all."