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It would be just like 'em to misunderstand the whole thing and go home and get me mixed into a lot of law for assaultin' 'em." "Oh, if you're afraid to go outside, say so!" sneered Hiram. "But you've talked so much of deep water, and weatherin' Cape Horn, and " "Afraid? Me afraid?" roared the Cap'n, spatting his broad hand on his breast.
He cast a hasty glance of gratitude toward the Native Son, who flushed under the smooth brown of his cheeks while he fired at a moving bush a hundred yards back in the grove. For another half hour nothing was gained or lost. The Indians fired desultorily, spatting bit& of lead here and there among the rocks but hitting nobody.
Inside, a pandemonium of growling, spatting, snarling, and grunting broke loose. The swale bent flat before heavy gusts of wind, and the big black chicken swept lower and lower above the swamp. Patches of clouds gathered, shutting out the sun and making it very dark, and the next moment were swept away. The sun poured with fierce, burning brightness, and everything was quiet.
The smoke at last obliged the people to give themselves up. They came out of their caves, first spatting the palms of their hands together, then and immediately after extended their arms, crossed at their wrists, ready to be bound and pinioned. I should judge that the dens above mentioned were extended about eight feet horizontally into the earth, five feet in height and as many wide.
Then she heard the bullet hit. Shifting her glance, she saw the bear lurch with convulsive action, rearing on his hind legs. Loud clicking snaps must have been a clashing of his jaws in rage. But there was no other sound. Then again Dale's heavy gun boomed. Helen heard again that singular spatting thud of striking lead. The bear went down with a flop as if he had been dealt a terrific blow.
Marching clubs, properly outfitted with two-quart silk tiles and frock coats, were spatting their way plumply down the Boulevard.
"I have an idea. Stop speaking to everybody." "Don't he silly." "I mean it." Ulysses S. G. Budlong was a man fertile in ideas and unflinching in their execution. Otherwise he would never have attained his present unquestioned supremacy, as the leading hay and feed merchant in Carthage. "It's as easy as falling off a log," he urged. "You women are always spatting about something.
What's the good of spatting like two kids, anyway?" "We're really not kids any longer, are we?" she agreed demurely. "I feel terribly grown up sometimes, don't you?" From which point they got along swimmingly for perhaps five minutes longer than it had ever been possible for them to talk together without "starting something."
So dutiful Allee "glared for all she was worth," and soon the sleeper grew restless. Then he opened his eyes. "We did it!" crowed Peace shrilly, spatting her hands together so suddenly that he jumped. "Did what, you young jackanapes?" he growled, rubbing his sleepy eyes, a trifle vexed at having been disturbed before his nap was out. "Woke you up with just looking at you!
"Can I have two kinds?" He brought up quince marmalade and her choicest damson plums. He put them down on the kitchen table and looked around, spatting his hands together briskly to rid them of dust. "Sh's burning pretty good now. That Fred! Don't any more know how to handle a boiler than a baby does. Is the house getting warmer?"
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