"Well, what do you want, Tom Smull?" asked Bob, as soon as his astonishment allowed him to speak.
"Now, that 'ere language sounds jist a leetle bit better, pard," exclaimed the lumberman, with a gruff laugh. "Me an' Griffin has went to a precious sight o' trouble ter git this hyar interview. We want ter be frien's o' yourn."
"Then you might as well show it by pointing that revolver some other way," suggested Bob.
"Where's the rest o' your bold, brave gang o' sneakers?" demanded Jack Conroy, hotly. "Throw down those shootin' irons, an' I'll bet the whole crowd wouldn't dare face us three seconds. An'—"
"Thar it goes ag'in!" snorted Tom Smull, violently. "Best be a bit keerful, younker. If yer never smelt powder smoke a-blowin' in yer face, it may be time fur yer to smell it now. But we ain't a-talkin' ter you; our business is with the gineral—Somers."
"Well?" queried Bob.
"I reckon it will be, if yer acts peaceable-like. You've got a drawin' showin' whar that streak o' pay dirt is, an' me an' Alf sure needs it."
"Hand it out, pard!" came from Griffin. "Ye kin jine our crowd, an' we'll share alike."
"Of all the nerve I ever heard about this is the biggest!" stormed Jack.
"It won't pay none ter git sassy," warned Smull. "Give me that drawin', Somers!"