“You’re a low-minded, sneaking son of an ignorant father,” he said to the spokesman of the Raturans.
“You’re another,” retorted his foe.
Having disposed of these preliminary compliments, the speakers paused, glared, and breathed hard.
Of course we give the nearest equivalent in English that we can find for the vernacular used.
“You and your greedy forefathers,” resumed the Mountain-man, “have always kept your false eyes on our mountain-top, and you are looking at it still.”
“That’s a lie,” returned the man of Ratura with savage simplicity.
Had they been armed, it is probable that the palaver would have closed abruptly at this point.
Seeing that the relations between the parties were “strained” almost to the breaking-point, one of the less warlike among the Ratura chiefs caught his own spokesman by the nape of the neck, and hurled him back among his comrades.
“We have not, O valiant men of the Mountain,” he said, in a gentle tone, “looked upon your hill-tops with desire. We only wish to improve our swamps, increase our sweet-potato grounds, and live at peace.”
“That is not true,” retorted the fiery Mountain-man, “and we must have a promise from you that you will let the swamps alone, and not advance one step nearer to the top of our mountain.”