“Thank you!” cried the young man. The light and glittering carriage rapidly disappeared up the Ridge Road.
Bartlett sat there for one moment the picture of baffled rage. Then he threw the reins down on the backs of his patient horses, and descended.
“You take my horses by the head, do you, you good-fur-nuthin’ Yank? You do, eh? I like your cheek. Touch my horses an’ me a-holdin’ the lines! Now you hear me? Your traps comes right off here on the road. You hear me?”
“Oh, anybody within a mile can hear you.”
“Kin they? Well, off comes your pesky tent.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Don’t it, eh? Well, then, you’ll lick me fust; and that’s something no Yank ever did nor kin do.”
“I’ll do it with pleasure.”
“Come, come,” cried the professor, getting down on the road, “this has gone far enough. Keep quiet, Yates. Now, Mr. Bartlett, don’t mind it; he means no disrespect.”
“Don’t you interfere. You’re all right, an’ I aint got nothin’ ag’in you. But I’m goin’ to thrash this Yank within an inch of his life; see if I don’t. We met ‘em in 1812, an’ we fit ‘em an’ we licked ‘em, an’ we can do it ag’in. I’ll learn ye to take my horses by the head.”