"You've let that horse calk himself, you beef-brained son of a bladder-fish!" roared Britt. "You ain't fit to drive a rockin'-horse with wooden webbin's!" He dove upon the struggling animal, and, hooking his great fists about the bit-rings, dragged the horse to his feet. "Stripped to the fetlocks!" mourned the owner. He surveyed the bleeding leg and whirled on the teamster. "That's the second pair you've put out of business for me in a week. Me furnishing hundred-and-fifty-dollar horses for you to paint the snow with!" He ploughed across to where the man stood holding the reins, and struck him full in the face, and the fellow went down like a log, blood flying from his face. "Mix some of your five-cent blood with blood that's worth something!" he yelped. "If there's got to be rainbow-snow up this way, I know how to furnish it cheaper." "That's a nice, interestin' gent down there for you to tackle just now on your business proposition," observed Ide, sourly. "Now, suppose you use common-sense, and turn around and go back to Enchanted!" But the Honorable Pulaski suddenly heard the jangle of their jumper-bell, and stared up at them. "Gettin' lessons on how to run a crew, Ide?" he asked. And seeing that the teamster was up and fumbling blindly at the tangled harness, he advanced up the slope. "I 'ain't ever forgiven you for takin' Tommy Eye away from me. That man's a _teamster_! It was a nasty trick, and perhaps your young whelp of a partner there has found out enough about woods law by this time to understand it." "Mr. Britt--" began Wade. "I don't want to talk to you at all!" snapped the tyrant, flapping his hand in protest. "Nor I to you!" retorted Wade, in sudden heat. "But as Mr. Ide's partner I have taken charge of the woods end of our operation, and I've got business to talk with you. We haven't begun to land our logs yet because--" "It's a wonder to me that you've got any cut down, you dude!" snorted Britt, contemptuously. "Because we haven't had an understanding about the drive," went on the young man, trying to keep his temper. "Now, about logs coming down Enchanted and into Jerusalem--" "You'll pay drivin' fees for every stick." "And you'll take our drive with yours?" "No, sir. I won't put the iron of a pick-pole into a log with your mark on it!" declared Britt.[5] [Footnote 5: Lest the remarkable attitude of the Honorable Pulaski D. Britt be considered an improbable resource of fiction, the author hastens to state that the Maine legislature, in considering the repeal of a log-driving charter, had exactly this situation submitted to it.] "Mr. Britt," said Wade, his voice trembling in the stress of his emotions, "as an operator in this section, as a man who is asking you straight business questions as courteously as I know how, I am entitled to decent treatment, and it will be better for all of us if I get it." "Threats, hey?" demanded Britt, malignantly.