“Hold on there, my man, you leave the boy alone,” said Cameron.
“What's your business in this, young feller?”
“Never mind!” said Cameron. “Tim is a friend of mine and no one is going to hurt him. Run along, Tim, and get your horses.”
“Friend o' Tim's, eh!” said Haley, in half drunken good nature. “Friend o' Tim's, friend o' mine,” he added, gravely shaking Cameron by the hand. “Have a drink, young man. You look a' right!”
Cameron took the bottle, put it to his lips. The liquor burned like fire.
“Great Caesar!” he gasped, contriving to let the bottle drop upon a stone. “What do you call that?”
“Pretty hot stuff!” cried Haley, with a shout of laughter.
But Sam, unable to see the humour of the situation, exclaimed in a rage, “Here, you cursed fool! That is my bottle!”
“Sorry to be so clumsy,” said Cameron apologetically, “but it surely wasn't anything to drink, was it?”
“Yes, it jest was something to drink, was it?” mocked Sam, approaching Cameron with menace in his eye and attitude. “I have a blanked good notion to punch your head, too!”