“I’m goin’ along with you,” I sez.
“No,” sez he.
“Yes,” sez I.
“It’ll make folks think ’at I’m afraid for my skin, and have you along for protection,” sez he, gettin’ earnest.
“If you had good judgment, you would be afraid for your skin,” sez I. “I tell you that Olaf is after your blood. He’s one o’ the worst; he kills with his bare hands when he gets the chance.”
“Fine, fine!” sez the Friar again, his eyes glowin’ joyous. “I’d have a right to defend myself with my hands, Happy. I would have a right to do this, for the sake of Olaf, you see—to prevent him from risking his own soul by committin’ murder. This is a great chance for me, Happy; now, please, please, go on back like a good fellow.”
I was secretly tickled at the argument the Friar had put up for a chance at physical warfare—and a barehand fight between him and Olaf would have been worth goin’ a long way to see—but I was as obstinate as either of ’em; so I just said ’at I was goin’ along.
“Well, you’re not goin’ with, me,” sez the Friar, as pouty as a schoolboy. “I’ll not speak to ya, and I’ll not have a thing to do with ya”; and he threw down his log and glared at me.
I took a certain amount o’ pride because the Friar lived up to his own standards; but I also found a certain deep-rooted amusement in havin’ him slip out from under ’em for a spell and display a human disposition which was purty much kindred to my own. “What do you purpose doin’ with that club, Friar?” I asked, pointin’ to the log he had flung down.
He pulled in his glare and looked to be a little discomposed. “Why I—I’m livin’ in a cave I got back there.”