“Oh, well, you see,” said Sandy apologetically, “it don’t come as natural to me as chewing, but, then, somebody’s got to swear. The old man’s converted, you know.”
“No, he hasn’t. I was afraid this scrimmage was going to do for him, but it didn’t; and now I think that if somebody near by does a little cussing,--not that anyone can cuss like the boss,--he’ll pull through. I think he’ll stick this time. You’d ought to have seen him wading into them d--d Fee-neens, swinging his sledge, and singing ‘Onward, Christian soldiers.’ Then, with me to chip in a cuss word now and again when things got hot, he pulled through the day without ripping an oath. I tell you, it was a sight. He bowled ‘em over like nine-pins. You ought to ‘a’ been there.”
“Yes,” said Yates regretfully. “I missed it, all on account of that accursed Stoliker. Well, there’s no use crying over spilled milk, but I’ll tell you one thing, Sandy: although I have no ammunition, I’ll let you know what I have got. I have, in my pocket, one of the best plugs of tobacco that you ever put your teeth into.”
Sandy’s eyes glittered. “Bless you!” was all he could say, as he bit off a corner of the offered plug.
“You see, Sandy, there are compensations in this life, after all; I thought you were out.”
“I haven’t had a bite all day. That’s the trouble with leaving in a hurry.”
“Well, you may keep that plug, with my regards. Now, I want to get back and interview those fellows. There’s no time to be lost.”
When they reached the group, Macdonald said:
“Here’s a man says he knows you, Mr. Yates. He claims he is a reporter, and that you will vouch for him.”
Yates strode forward, and looked anxiously at the prisoners, hoping, yet fearing, to find one of his own men there. He was a selfish man, and wanted the glory of the day to be all his own. He soon recognized one of the prisoners as Jimmy Hawkins of the staff of a rival daily, the New York _Blade_. This was even worse than he had anticipated.
“Hello, Jimmy!” he said, “how did you get here?”
“I was raked in by that adjective fool with the unwashed face.”
“Whose a--fool?” cried Macdonald in wrath, and grasping his hammer. He boggled slightly as he came to the “adjective,” but got over it safely. It was evidently a close call, but Sandy sprang to the rescue, and cursed Hawkins until even the prisoners turned pale at the torrent of profanity. Macdonald looked with sad approbation at his pupil, not knowing that he was under the stimulus of newly acquired tobacco, wondering how he had attained such proficiency in malediction; for, like all true artists, he was quite unconscious of his own merit in that direction.