“Where does your land begin? Where is the boundary on this side toward Pleasant Point?”
“That ain’t none of your business, either. Think I’m going to bother to tell you where the bound’ries are? You’re on our property, and you want to get off and stay off, I tell ye that. If ye don’t——” He lifted his clenched fist in a threatening gesture.
“Regular sus-scrapper, isn’t he?” chuckled Springer, who, stimulated by his companion’s example, had become outwardly cool and undisturbed.
As far as Rod was concerned, this calmness was all outward seeming, for beneath the surface his naturally belligerent disposition had been aroused by the threatening truculence and insolence of young Simpson.
“If you don’t tell us where your boundary line is,” said Rod, in that quiet way which Simpson mistook for timidity, “how are we going to know when we’re trespassing? We’re camping on Pleasant Point, and——”
“If you don’t come over this way you won’t do no trespassin’, and you’ll be likely to save yourselves a lot of trouble.”
“But what if we do come this way? What sort of trouble will we get into?”
“You’ll get your heads everlastingly lammed off your shoulders, that’s what,” snarled Jim Simpson.
“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.”