“No?”
“She had another reason altogether.”
“Der chilt iss to pe kilt—saccerivized? I haf heart uff der ligkes uff dat.”
“No, not at all; it will be treated well.”
The baron looked puzzled.
“I’m your vriend, eenyhow,” he said, striking Conover familiarly on the shoulder, “uff you gan gid me oudt uff dis, unt vare Puffalo Pill iss now. Der Inchins ton’d gid him. Nein! Puffalo Pill iss doo smardt vor eeny Inchuns vatefer. I know him; me, Baron von Schnitzenhauser, know Puffalo Pill petter as he knows me.”
He stood up very straight, drawing himself to his full height, with a clatter of the wooden shoes, and hammered his breast much as he had hammered the gold bars.
“Dot iss me!” he said. “I am a prave mans, unt so iss Puffalo Pill. You gid me oudt uff here undo vare he is, unt I bed you ve git does chilt mighdy quick. Likewise,” he looked covetously at the gold bars, “ve gid so much uff diss stuff as ve can load ondo ower horses. Olt Schnitzenhauser ain’d dead vid, huh? Nein! You pet me dot ve—dot is me unt Puffalo Pill—vill lif yid to make dings lifely for dese Inchuns.”
He held out his hand again.
“Bud I veels sorry vor you, sure; you petter gome mit us when ve make t’ings lively py dis town. Der lifely pitzness vill pegin yoost as soon as I am oudt uff here unt mit Puffalo Pill. Yaw, dot iss so.”