Young Dan stepped forward and stooped down and stared into the eyes of his unwelcome guest.
“I warn you, Jim Conley, to mend your ways an’ mind your manners, or you’ll find yourself crowded for elbow-room in this neck o’ woods,” he said, slowly and clearly. “And I warn you that it won’t be me who’ll have to clear out when the crowding commences. Think it over; and the less you say about your spilt gin and who’s to pay for it—and who has already paid for it—the better for you.”
“What’s that ye say?” returned the other, trying unsuccessfully to keep his eyes steady and his voice big and careless.
“It was a warning.”
“About who paid for the gin—that’s what I’m askin’ ye. What d’ye mean by that? That’s what I want to know, young feller.”
“You know what I mean by that; so keep your mouth shut, or I’ll forget about your family and light right into you.”
Conley laughed uneasily and dropped the subject.
“If yer askin’ me to stop to supper, I’ll take off my snowshoes an’ mitts,” he said.
“We’ll feed you, now that we’ve saved you from freezing to death in the snow,” replied Young Dan, ungraciously, returning to the stove.
Two pots of tea were drunk and two pans of venison steak were devoured. Then the partners crawled into their bunks and their guest went to sleep on the floor.