"Oh! for the Administration, to be sure!"
"You do, sir!" I rejoined, shaking my fist at him. "Then, sir, let me tell you, sir, you belong to a scoundrelly party, and are a scoundrel yourself, sir: and so, sir, walk off my place, or I'll prosecute you for a trespass."
"You insolent ragamuffin!" said he.
Ragamuffin! Was I sunk so low that a man trespassing on my own property could call me ragamuffin?
"You poor, miserable shote!"—
So degraded that I could be called a pig?
"You half-starved old sand-field Jersey kill-deer!"—
A Jersey kill-deer!
"You vagabond! You beggar! You Dicky Dout!"—
I was struck dumb by the multitude and intensity of his epithets; and before I could recover speech, he shouldered his gun, snapped his fingers in my face, and whistling to his dog, walked off the ground. Before he had gone six steps, however, he turned round, gave me a hard look, and bursting into a laugh, exclaimed, tapping his forehead as he spoke,—