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"It's ownly his nasty timper, though; an' he vints it on them poor harmless things bekase he's too much av a coward to have it out wid them that angers him," replied Tim Rooney, adding, as another crash resounded from the distance: "Jist he'r him now. Bedad he's havin' a foine fling this toime, an' no misthake at all, at all!" "What is he doing?"
"Wal, yeh could see wal enough that Jess's knees was a-knockin' together, but she tunes up her mandy-linn, scratches at the strings with a little chip, an' gits started all right on 'Rock o' Ages, an' gits to goin' along kinder quavery-like fer a while, an' then she busts right inter, 'He'r dem Bells, so strong an' high an' wild that it takes the ol' man right out o' his boots.
That fust shout war from the Injun Cheeko; and the t'other air hern my gurl's. Durnation! if they hurt but a he'r o' her head Wagh! what's the use o' my threetenin'?" As if seeing his impotence, the hunter suddenly ceases speech, again setting himself to listen. Hamersley, without heeding him, is already in this attitude. And now out of the valley arise other sounds, not all of them loud.
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