“Pleasant sort of man if he can cow this wonderful Jake,” observed Tresler, quietly.
“Oh, yes, pleasant ’nough,” said Ike, mistaking his guest’s meaning.
“The only thing I can’t understand ’bout Anton,” said Slum, suddenly becoming interested, “is that he’s earnin’ his livin’ honest. He’s too quiet, an’—an’ iley. He sort o’ slid into this territory wi’out a blamed cit’zen of us knowin’. We’ve heerd tell of him sence from ’crost the border, an’ the yarns ain’t nice. I don’t figger to argue wi’ strangers at no time, an’ when Anton’s around I don’t never git givin’ no opinion till he’s done talkin’, when I mostly find mine’s the same as his.”
“Some folks ain’t got no grit,” growled Shaky, contemptuously.
“An’ some folk ’a’ got so much grit they ain’t got no room fer savee,” rapped in Slum sharply.
“Meanin’ me,” said Shaky, sitting up angrily.
“I ’lows you’ve got grit,” replied the little man quietly, looking squarely into the big man’s eyes.
“Go to h——”
“Guess I’d as lief be in Forks; it’s warmer,” replied Slum, imperturbably.
“Stow yer gas! You nag like a widder as can’t git a second man.”