"In course," said Gabriel, in quiet surprise, "ef _you_ say so. But don't ye do nowt ez would be gettin' yourself into troubil along o' me. I ain't worth it. Maybe it 'ud be jest as square ef ye handed me over to them chaps out yer--allowin' I was a heep o' troubil to you--and reckonin' you'd about hed _your sheer_ o' the keer o' me, and kinder passin' me round. But ef you _do_ feel obligated to take keer o' me, ez hevin' promised the jedges and jury" (it is almost impossible to convey the gentle deprecatoriness of Gabriel's voice and accent at this juncture), "why," he added, "I'm with ye. I'm thar! You understand me!" He rose slowly, and with quiet but powerfully significant deliberation placed the chair he had been sitting on back against the wall. The tone and act satisfied the sheriff. The seventy-four gunship, Gabriel Conroy, was clearing the decks for action. There was an ominous lull in the outcries below, and then the solitary lifting up of a single voice, the Potential Voice of the night before! The sheriff walked to a window in the hall and opened it. The besieger and besieged measured each other with a look. Then came the Homeric chaff:-- "Git out o' that, Joe Hall, and run home to your mother. She's getting oneasy about ye!" "The h--ll you say!" responded Hall, promptly, "and the old woman in such a hurry she had to borry Al Barker's hat and breeches to come here! Run home, old gal, and don't parse yourself off for a man agin!" "This ain't no bluff, Joe Hall! Why don't ye call? Yer's fifty men; the returns are agin ye, and two precincts yet to hear from." (This was a double thrust, at Hall's former career as a gambler, and the closeness of his late election vote.) "All right! send 'em up by express--mark 'em C. O. D." (The previous speaker was the expressman.) "Blank you! Git!" "Blank you! Come on!" Here there was a rush at the door, the accidental discharge of a pistol, and the window was slammed down. Words ceased, deeds began.