“Smash me to nuthin’, ram me down and shoot me, if thar ain’t Jarsey, or I’m a sinner!” exclaimed a familiar voice, and the same instant Bill Biddon stepped into the ring before me. “Give us your paw, Jarsey.” He grasped my hand and gave a vigorous gripe, while his scarred countenance was dissolved in one great broad smile. It is needless to say I was delighted beyond measure at this unexpected meeting. “Why, Bill, I little thought to meet you here.” “And yer’s as what thinks Bill didn’t think so himself.” During this passage of words between us, the others stood wondering and perplexed. The honest old trapper turned, and seeing Tom standing with his fists still clinched, shouted: “Ef you say another word to that gentleman thar, as is worth forty like you, there’ll be only a grease-spot left of you. Do you hear, eh?” and he shook his ponderous fist beneath his nose. The fellow did hear, and with a muttering, “It’s cu’rous, I allow,” donned his coat with the most perfect meekness. “Now,” said Biddon facing the rest, “if thar are any ’bout yer as wants to take up this fout, why jist step forward and get lammed.” “Is he a Nor’wester?” asked one, breaking the perfect silence. “What you want to know fur?” “’Cause if he is, he can’t pass this crowd without swallerin’ them words.” “What words?” demanded Biddon, fiercely. “What Tom said he said.” “Have I not explained--” I commenced. “Now jist hold on, Jarsey,” interrupted the trapper, turning toward me with a backward wave of his hand. “Now, hold on, you, fur ef you take back anything you’ve said, shoot me, ef _I_ don’t lick you. Ogh!” Then turning to the others he continued, “He ain’t goin’ to take back nothin’ he’s said yerabouts; and ef Tom Wilson thar don’t swaller what _he_ said, yer’s as will make him do it.” “I mought’ve be mistaken,” said the now thoroughly-frightened Tom. “That won’t do.” “Wal, he didn’t say so,” he jerked out. “That’ll answer. S’posen I say he is a Nor’-wester, how ’bout that?” demanded Biddon, glaring about on the rest. There was no response. All was still as death. “Wal, boys,” added Bill, returning to his good nature, “he _ain’t_ a trapper; never took a skin in his born days; is a parfect gentleman, and I’ll make you ’quainted with Bill Relmond, from the States, or, as I call him, Jarsey, as fine a chap as ever tramped these parts.” The scene that followed was singular and amusing. All crowded around me, smiling and talking and shaking hands; and the first hand I grasped was Tom Wilson’s. “Hope you won’t mind what I said;” he spoke in a lower tone, “I orter been lammed for it, sure.” “Don’t refer to it,” I laughed; “I suppose you were only anxious for a little amusement to pass away time.” “That’s it ’zactly, Jarsey, you’re a trump.” “It’s my private opine,” called out Biddon, “that this coon is goin’ inter these eatables, and ef you wants a bite, Jarsey, you’d better jine.”