Beadle's Half Dime Library, No. 67 — page 14: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Pe —————— ‘ Wait till de har’s done growin’ on you’ teef, fore you érow, Irish!” At this juncture a burly ruffian stepped between the per- sons who evidently bore the relationship of master and ser- vants, and said : ‘‘ Hold on hyar! 1 reckon we’ll have a hand in this hyar leetle game. That mill hain’t off that way, nohow ye kin fix it—eh, fellers?” ‘Yer right, boss!” assented one worthy, while a second vouchsafed : ‘. Ef our fun’s g’wine to be sp’iled in this hyar way, I al- low we’ll know the reason why.” ‘‘Sam! Pat! Come out of there this instant!” called the irate old gentleman. ‘‘Sam! Pat!” mimicked the borderman, “ ef you budge a step, I'll let daylight clean through you!” And he drew a “ six-shooter,” cocked it, and took delib- erate aim at the nearest, which happened to be the gentie- man of Celtic extraction. ‘*Pard, I’m with ye!” ** Hyar, too!” , ‘‘ Ye don’t leave me out o’ this leet’e gaa “«T assist.” ‘You hyear my gentle voice?” ‘* Hz-cuse me!” With this and similar expressions, nearly half the crowd drew their weapons and pointed them at the:r luckless en- tertainers of a moment since, Before this formidable array Bryan o’ Ballyhoolagan “ wilted "—in other words, crumpling his hat between his hands and canting his head to one side, somewhat after the manner of a bashful child, he resorted instinctive)y to blar- ney. ‘“ Ali! sure, gintlemen, yer honors ‘il turn thin: things another way! Faith, yez woaldn’t be afther hurtn’ two poor divils that niver done yez a hand’s turn o’ harrum, at all, at all! Dll swear it’s a govd joke ye’re playin’, Ha! ha! ha!” His mechanical laugh was as \:oarse as the bark of 4 jack- al, while the grimace which he intended for a propiiatory smile was ludicrous in its white-lipped fear. Every muscle in his body seemed to cringe, and his knees fairly smcte together. As for Sambo, he dropped on his marrowbones, ani clasped his hands in agonized supplication, shutting his eyes tightly, to hide the death he dared not look upon. ‘¢ Wo’ de lub ob de bressed Lo’d, gemmen,” he pleaded ix a quavering voice, ‘‘ don’t shoot dis hyay chile! He ain’t nt to die, nohow! De debil shore to git him, pore soul, ef you cut him down like de grass ob de fields. Leabe dis sinnah to de Lo’d’s own time, an’ he’ll speak a good word fur ye in de New Jerus’lum, shore!” ‘What is the meaning of this outragey” demanded ord Mr. Haveland, hotly. ‘‘ Boss,” said the ruffian who hal first intcrfered, ‘‘ thar’s money up on this shake-leg mill, and it ain’t off, you bet, till the thing’s decided, one way or t’other. You hear me? —Spanish Dave, the Handsome Man! I hailv from IJdaho, Golden City, Caraboo, an’ surroundin’ country!” | This speech was delivered with a swaggering brav:do that would have become a bandit in his mountain fastness. The title of the ‘‘ Handsome Man” had been assamed by the fellow in that spirit of sardonic irony sometimes evinced by monsters of ugliness who seem to take a fierce, bitter pride in their disfigurement. A ‘ivid scar running from the left temple across the nose, to the chin on the opposite side of the face, made Spanish Dave more fiendish than hand- some. ‘*And do you presume to interfere between me and my servants?” said Mr. Haveland, his heavy stick trembling in his hand, as if it itched to try conclusions with Spanish Dave’s thick skull. ‘*Oh, blow you and your servants!” That insult capped the climax. id 14 Beadle’s Half-Dime Library. The hot-headed old gentleman’s wrath exploded like nitro , glycerine. By a lightning stroke of his heavy walking-stick Span- ish Dave was stretched stunned and bleeding on the floor. Then a man on whose temples age had hung her silver drapery, armed only with a cudgel, faced a mob, every man of which was armed to the teeth with murderous bowie and ‘* six-sheoter.” CHAPTER IL. THE SPORTIVE SPORT, For an instant the boldness of the act held every one spell-bound. They could scarcely realize that the dare-devil had been indeed felled to the earth. Then a roar of fury rung through’ the room, and dark visages scowled black menace. Mr. Haveland had advanced a few steps into the room, and now from either side partisans of the fallen ruffian leaped forward to cut off his retreat at the door. In an instant he found himself surrounded by a mob to whom murder was but a pastime. ‘Pat! Sam!” he called, standing on the defensive, and holding his cane in readiness. The opening of the crowd had brought the master and servants within the same circle, In an agony of terror, Sam crept forward until he could clutch the skirts of his master’s coat. ‘* Fo’ de Lo’d’s sake, Massa Haveland, don’t let ’em hurt— dis chile, dat’s done skeered to deff! Oh! de good Lo’d sabe dis pore sinnah f’om de raff ob de Philistines, an’ he be good all de rest ob him days, shore!—’clar’ to goodness, he will!” Equally terrified, valiant Bryan o’ Balleyhoolagan had ne} wit to see that the fury of the mob was wholly directed to- ward his master; and having no relish fer exposing his craven hide unnecessarily to the danger of perforation, he sought to lose himself among the crowd of assailants. But his meditated retreat was detected and frustrated by one of the bordermen, who offset some of their vices by a healthful contempt for poltroonery. ‘*Git back thar, fur a beggarly sneak that ’ud desart his pards when they’re up to the ears in dirty water!” was the indignant denunciation. And by a vigorous kick in the rear Bryan o’ Balleyhoolagan was hurled forward upon his knees. ‘‘Hold on, pards. Don’t sp’ile my meat,” cried Spanish Dave, who had now so far collected his scattered wits as to perceive the menacing attitude of the crowd toward the man who had knocked him down. With some difficulty the ruffian got on his feet, and stood crouching like a tiger about to spring, and glaring fierce hatred and gloating malignity at his intended victim. His face was purple with rage. His eyes were bloodshot. His huge form quivered in every nerve. Drawing his bowie-knife from his boot-leg, he ran his fin- ger along the edge and tried its point, while he grinned in sardonic, ghoulish glee. “Haha! Ha-ha! You knocked me down, did ye? You knocked Spanish Dave off his pins! Ha-ha! Ha-ha!” His short, mechanical laugh was blood curdling, as he advanced upon the unarmed man with slow, creeping steps. By that murderous assault, the silver-haired old hero must inevitably have been beaten down to death, but for a timely intervention. From the doorway came a voice: “ When wanted, I am always on hand! Hal ha! ha!” Every eye flashed in the direction of the door, and then those who had been most prominent in the assault, turned away in evident disgust. Their chagrin found expression in low rautterings, “The Sportive, by thunder!” A. ui! GOMIGHOOKS ee (E(@)