Float. "That's 'skunk,'" says I, "because he's a polecat not to answer me."
Guns.
"What's that?" asked Whiskers, heaps suspicious because I couldn't think of another word of four letters. "Hell!" says I.
"Quite right," sighed Whiskers, "to think of your future home."
"Says he's ready for the Epistle and Gospel now. Spit it out, Whiskers."
"Tell him to throw his guns in the river, or I'll shoot prisoner. And what's more, young man, you don't want to call me Whiskers."
I wagged all that, word for word, as far as "Whiskers," and when the boys were through laughing, Dale asked if the robbers were serious.
I explained to the general that Dale wouldn't wet good guns to please a lot of—
"Lot of what?"