“You seem to consider it your specialty to lam folks’ heads off their shoulders. I’ve seen a heap of pugnacious parties like you before this, and I’ve always observed that if they were persevering enough they eventually succeeded in getting a lamming themselves.” “What’s that?” shouted the fellow, dropping his fishing pole and starting forward into the brook until the water rose round the ankles of the long-legged boots into which his trousers were tucked. “What’re you doin’, making fightin’ talk to me? If you be, by heck, I’ll come over there and hand you one right on the kisser!” “You’d better stay where you are, I reckon,” returned Rodney in continued calmness. “I’m not looking for a scrap, having learned by observation that the gent who prances round with a chip on his shoulder sure gets it knocked off by a better chap some day.” “Gee whiz!” hissed Springer. “He’s gug-going to come over! It looks like a mix-up.” “If he picks up a fight, leave him to me,” said Rodney, in a low tone. “We’re not hunting for trouble, but I admit this gent’s deportment is right displeasing to me, and I don’t think it advisable to let him browbeat us or drive us away like frightened sheep.” Picking the shallow places, Jim Simpson waded the brook, maintaining a fierce and threatening manner, though possibly he was somewhat surprised by the lack of alarm evinced in the bearing of the young campers. “You’ll find there ain’t no fooling about this business,” he declared, as he emerged from the water and paused a few feet distant, beginning to roll up his shirt sleeves. “You better skedaddle before I pitch into ye. I don’t want to hurt ye, but——” “That’s right kind of you,” scoffed Rod. “I opined by your remarks that you were yearning to hand us a sample lamming. If we had been properly warned in advance, or had seen ‘No trespassing’ signs hereabouts, we might not have fished in this brook.” Simpson seemed to interpret this as a concession or symptom of backing down, and it made him still more arrogant in his manner. “I told ye you’d better skedaddle, to start with, but you was chumps enough to stand and argue with me, and you even handed me some sass. I won’t take sass from nobody like you, by heck! Now you’ve got jest about ten seconds to pick up and hiper. Dig, I tell ye—dig out!” “We’re no diggers,” returned the Texan, whose eyes had swiftly taken cognizance of the immediate footing, that he might not stumble over any obstruction upon the ground in the encounter which seemed unavertible save by retreat. He had passed his rod to Springer, in order that his hands might be free. “There’ll be some doings,” Phil whispered to himself, “when Mr. Simpson attempts to put his bub-brand on this Texas maverick.”