From the centre of the clearing men were crawling or staggering to
safety--with the exception of the Black Minorca, who lay moaning
softly. Colonel Pennington, seeing his fondest hopes expire, lost his
head completely.
"Get off my property, you savage," he shrilled.
"Don't be a nut, Colonel," Bryce returned soothingly. "I'll get off--
when I get good and ready, and not a second sooner. In fact, I was
trying to get off as rapidly as I could when you sent your men to
bring me back. Prithee why, old thing? Didst crave more conversation
with me, or didst want thy camp cleaned out?"
He started toward Pennington, who backed hastily away. Shirley stood
her ground, bending upon Bryce, as he approached her, a cold and
disapproving glance. "I'll get you yet," the Colonel declared from
the shelter of an old stump behind which he had taken refuge.
"Barking dogs never bite, Colonel. And that reminds me: I've heard
enough from you. One more cheep out of you, my friend, and I'll go up
to my own logging-camp, return here with a crew of bluenoses and wild
Irish and run your wops, bohunks, and cholos out of the county. I
don't fancy the class of labour you're importing into this county,
anyhow."
The Colonel, evidently deciding that discretion was the better part
of valour, promptly subsided, although Bryce could see that he was
mumbling threats to himself, though not in an audible voice.
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