"About face!" he said sharply to the man. "You can't talk that way before this baby. We are going off your place as straight and as fast as we can. You shoulder your pitchfork and go back to your house."
The man started again on a string of objurgation.
"I mean what I say," said Mr. Kincaid with deadly emphasis. "About face. If you open your mouth again I shall certainly kill you."
The old man's bent shoulders had straightened, his mild blue eye flashed fire. So he must have looked to his soldiers before the storming of Molino del Rey. His hands were quite empty of a weapon, and his age was hardly a match for the other's brute strength. Nevertheless the farmer at once turned back, after a parting, but milder, admonition.
Mr. Kincaid picked up his gun, tucked it under his arm and trudged forward. Bobby was trembling violently with excitement and anger.
"Why—why—" he gasped, as yet unable to cast his thoughts into speech.
Mr. Kincaid glanced down. A faint and amused smile flickered under his moustache.
"You aren't going to do that sort of a crank the honour of keeping stirred up, are you?" "That's Pritchard—the worst crank in Michigan. He's quarrelled with every one. I never did know where his farm was, or I should have taken pains to keep off."
They climbed into the cart and drove away toward town.
"I believe I'll make a hunter of you, Bobby," pursued Mr. Kincaid after they were going. "It's a good thing to be. Of course there's the fun of it—the 'pats,' the quail, the jacksnipe, the 'cock. But then there's the other part, too."