“And who is your father, master cock-a-hoop?” asked the man.
“Call me by my proper name and I’ll answer a civil question.”
“You’ll answer whether I put the question civilly or not,” cried the fellow, raising his whip and spurring his horse on towards Dan, on which I brought my rifle to bear on the man, exclaiming—
“If you touch my brother, I’ll shoot you, as sure as you’re a living man.”
On this he pulled in his rein, while his companion, bursting into a loud laugh, exclaimed—
“These young cocks crow loudly! I say, youngsters, who is your father? he must be a smart fellow to own such a pair of bantlings.”
“Our father is Captain Loraine who lives at Uphill, and he’s not the person to stand nonsense from you or any other man like you!” exclaimed Dan, whose Irish temper had risen almost to boiling pitch.
The strangers, seeing that they could not get much change out of us, rode on; the last man who had spoken bantering his companion on their defeat. I saw the other turn his head several times as though not quite sure that we should not fire after him.
“I am glad they didn’t come upon our camp this morning, although as they have no blood-hounds with them, we might have managed to conceal the negro without having had resort to force,” I remarked.
“But we should have had to tell lies if they had put questions to us, or have given him up or fought for him,” observed Dan.