I, whether or no we'd have to take up belt-slack for our breakfast."

At the word the Catawba whipped out his knife and fell to work
hospitably on the meat supply. Meanwhile I came upon the scene,
something less hurriedly than Richard. Ephraim Yeates looked me up and
down with a sniff for my foreign-cut coat, another for my queue, and a
third for the German ritter-boots I wore.

"Umph!" said he. "Now if here ain't that there dad-blame' Turkey-fighter
again! What almighty cur'is things the good Lord do let loose on a
stiff-necked and rebellious gineration!" Then to me, most pointedly:
"Say, Cap'n; the big woods ain't no fitting place for such as you, ez I
allow. Ye mought be getting them purty boots o' your'n all tore up on
the briars."

He ended with a dry little laugh not unlike Mr. Gilbert Stair's
parchment crackle; and, being his guest for the nonce, I laughed with
him.

"Have your joke and welcome, Mr. Yeates," said I. "I am too near
famished to quarrel with my chance of breakfast."

Much to my astoundment he flung his raccoon-skin cap into the air, spat
upon his hands and began that insane war-dance of his.

"Whoop!" he yelled. "No band-box dandy from the settlemints ever sot out
to call me 'Mister' and got away alive to brag on't! Ketch hold, you
infergotten, Turkey-fighting, silver-buttoned jack-a-dandy till I dip ye
in the creek and soak a flour-ration 'r two out 'n that there pig-tail
top-knot o' your'n! _Yip-pee!_"