“It’s mighty poor stuff to drink,” said the trapper. “Fer me now, when I drink, I take a little good rye whisky. _That’s_ good enough fer me.” “Boor shtuff! Penn Miffin, av it vash not dat I know you too vell, I vould hit you mit your nose av you says dat vonce more. I dells you dere ish nottings so goot ash Rhine vine.” “Yes, for a _Dutchman_,” said Ben. “But you ish voolin’. Dere, I seen you laff. Don’t say dat no more,” said Jan. “What does ye think about it, Jule?” said Ben, looking at the Frenchman. “That it is very bad drink,” said the Frenchman. “Peste! The first time I drank it, it was so sour I thought it would make me turn myself inside out to get rid of it. The Rhine grape is very bad. In la belle France they make wine that is good.” “Vy den you ask him?” blustered Jan. “Vat ish he more ash a Vrenchman? Unt I ask you now, aff you vas dell me, vat ish de goot over a man vat eats vrogs? So help me gracious, dey is no more goot to eat dan snakes. Unt dey ish p’ison.” “I reckon yer wrong, Jan,” said the trapper. “They do say thet snakes ain’t very bad eatin’ when a chap is hard druv’. I don’t say I want to try ’em, but ef I c’u’d ’a’ got snakes the time I cum nigh to starvin’ up yer in the Black Hills, durn my hide ef I wouldn’t hev eat snakes or any thing else. I kem of a queer race. I ken eat any thing, and lick my weight in wildcats. I’m death on grizzlys. I ken wipe out an Injun as fur as I ken see him, and I calculate thet’s a good ways.” “You talks a goot deal mit yer _mout_,” said Jan. “Put aff a man says to me dat snakes unt frogs is goot to eat, den I dinks he ish no more ash von vool. Aff ever I get vere I can no more get nottings to eat, so help me gracious ash I vill _not_ eat snakes unt vrogs, aff day vash to come to me in hundreds unt t’ousands, ready cooked, unt beg me on dere knees to eat dem.” “Did you ever see a snake on his knees, Jan?” said Ben. “Yaw! Ven you poke dem mit a stick, dey gits up on dere tails. Dat’s de vay dey vould do ven dey vash ask me to eat dem. Unt I vash say, No, py tam!” The Frenchman said nothing, but stooped to stir some soup in an iron pan placed on the coals, glancing up at the Dutchman with a queer smile as he did so. The blood of the Teuton was up, and he dropped off into low mutterings, like distant thunder, until a fresh grievance caused him to break out again. He found this grievance in Ben Miffins’ manner of smoking. “Dere,” he said, “shpose you look at dat, eh? Ven a man ash ought to know petter, unt ve know ash he _knows_ petter, shmokes hish pipe drue hish nose, like dat, he ish von tam vool. See him. Puff! puff! puff! like a shteampoat mit a vire in her pelly. Now I dells you dat ish not the vay to shmoke.” “It’s _my_ way,” said Ben. “Look yer, Dutchy, ef ye don’t like my way of smokin’, does ye know what ye ken do? Ye ken take the back track to the forts.” “Vy don’t you shmoke like a Christian den?” grunted Jan.