"De creetur des walk roun' en roun' de tree, en ain't make no answer. Den Brer Wolf hail 'im ag'in, en talk like he mighty mad: "'Ain't you gwine ter min' me, you imperdent scoundul? Ain't you gwine ter mozey outer my woods en let my tree 'lone?
"Shore your mind ain't workin'," said Larry. "Get out of heah. Mozey over to thet camp doctor or you'll never need one." Shurd backed away, livid and shaking, and presently he ran. "Red! ..." expostulated Neale. "You you shot him all up! You nearly killed him." "Why in hell don't you pack a gun?" drawled Larry. "Red, you're you're I don't know what to call you. I'd have licked him, club and all."