The deputy sheriff stared in amazement.
“Say, that would take some knocking!” he retorted. “How old are you, young feller?”
“I’m going on eighteen,” replied Ben quietly.
“And you think you can best me in a fight?”
“Yes, I think I can. I’m bigger than you and longer in the reach—and I’m pretty good.”
“But yer sappy. And yer all joints. I’m no giant but I’m weathered. The milk’s out of my bones.”
“My joints are all right, Mr. Brown. You won’t find anything wrong with them if you start in questioning that little Sherwood girl about her father.”
“I wasn’t born on this river,” said the deputy sheriff, “and I’m a peaceful citizen with a wife an’ children in Woodstock, but I consider myself as good a sportsman as any O’Dell who ever waved a sword or a pitchfork. There’s more man in me than deputy sheriff. I’ll fight you, Ben, for I like yer crazy ideas; and if you trim me I’ll go away without asking the girl a single question about her father. But if I trim you I’ll question her.”
Ben looked at his uncle and the lids of McAllister’s left eye fluttered swiftly.
“That wouldn’t be fair,” said Ben, turning again to Brown. “And I can’t make it fair, for I’m determined that you shall not worry my mother’s guest, whatever happens. If you did manage to beat me, there’d still be Uncle Jim. So you wouldn’t get a square deal.”