"Leave that dawg alone!" says I. He quit resisting me then, backed to the log wall, and stood glaring.
"I've noticed," says I, "in dawgs that the smaller the dawg, the larger the bark. I knew one onced so small that he hadn't room to hold his bark—and the recoil tharfrom threw him back three dawg lengths. You seem to suffer a whole lot from yo' recoil, Mr. Ryan."
"I guess," he said in his harsh Yankee twang, "that you're a low-down coward—torturing me because you know I'm helpless."
"That dawg," says I, "is acting sort of queer, eh? As to my being a coward, Mr. Ryan, you'll remember the last time we met I came buttin' along to yo' hotel in Grave City commenting on yo' proceedings with a straight tongue, and guns to back the same."
"Come to the point," says he.
"Now this yere is what I'm trailin's up to, seh, that I bears neither guns nor malice, calls no names, bridles my tongue severe, treats you with plenty and gentle inquiries, whar do you keep yo' manners?"
"Where you keep your honesty," says he, sort of sarcastic. "You know I can't escape, so I've got to listen. Talk, my good man, and when you're through you can go."
The town scout still had his office manners, a lot contemptuous. He climbed up on top of his vanity—like a frog on a ladder—to call me "my good man." And yet I had tamed him enough for business.
"I take notice," says I, "that on the shelf above yo' haid there's a tin of rough-on-rats. This condiment is maybe unusual in meat balls, and it seems to affect yo' dawg some poignant, with wiggles and froth on the jaws. He's swelling up, too. I likewise remarks that thar's enough of these high-flavored meat balls to go through McCalmont and all his riders. May I politely ask how long you been cook for this ranche?"
"Mind your own business."