“I most–er–wish I had taken out my kermission fust, afore sendin’ Baggs the money,” Joe had said; but it was too late to make changes. He still lived, though, in the hope that out of those exhaustless money fountains Baggs was reputed to own, a golden stream might run some day into Joe Cardridge’s pocket. Feeling that he was the representative of the great house of Baggs, he did not fancy the nature of Walter’s remark, knowing its meaning. However, the thunder storm raging under his vest he prudently concealed in the presence of Tom Walker, Cook Charlie, and Woodbury Elliott. Although he had received no pay from the great mercantile house employing him, he meant in its behalf to give “pay,” in an underhand fashion to the young fellow now insulting Baggs, as he thought.
“Fellers,” he said, “it’s pleasant, and the grass is thick and dry; and it won’t hurt if we git tumbled; and let’s have a rastle.”
The proposition of a friendly wrestle did not seem unpleasant to these young fishermen, proud of their muscle, and ambitious to show it.
“I’m willin’,” said Tom Walker, gaping, and at the same time ostentatiously throwing up a pair of brawny arms.
“So am I,” said Woodbury Elliott, straightening up, and bringing into firm outline his splendid frame.
“So—so—am I,” said Cook Charlie, waddling about; “pervided—you let me beat.”
This proposition was welcomed with a laugh, but it was instantly followed by another from Joe.
“Come, surf–boy, let’s you and me try.”
“Surf–boy!” growled Tom Walker. “He has got a lot of strength, Joe.”