Part 13 (1/2)
A ROUGH RECEPTION.
For fas.h.i.+on's sake, I was about to utter the usual formula, ”Mr Holt, I presume?” but the opportunity was not allowed me. No sooner had the squatter appeared in his doorway, than he followed up his blasphemous interrogatory with a series of others, couched in language equally rude.
”What's all this muss about? Durn yur stinkin' imperence, who air ye?
an' what air ye arter?”
”I wish to see Mr Holt,” I replied, struggling hard to keep my temper.
”Ye wish to see Mister Holt? Thur's no _Mister_ Holt 'bout hyur.”
”No?”
”No! d.a.m.nation, no! Didn't ye hear me!”
”Do I understand you to say, that Hickman Holt does not live here?”
”You understan' me to say no sich thing. Eft's Hick Holt ye mean, he diz live hyur.”
”Hick Holt--yes that is the name.”
”Wall what o't, ef't is?”
”I wish to see him.”
”Lookee hyur, stranger!” and the words were accompanied by a significant look; ”ef yur the shariff, Hick Holt ain't at home--ye understand me?
_he ain't at home_.”
The last phrase was rendered more emphatic, by the speaker, as he uttered it, raising the flap of his blanket-coat, and exhibiting a huge bowie-knife stuck through the waistband of his trousers. I understood the hint perfectly.
”I am not the sheriff,” I answered in an a.s.suring tone. I was in hopes of gaining favour by the declaration: for I had already fancied that my bizarre reception might be owing to some error of this kind.
”I am _not_ the sheriff,” I repeated, impressively.
”Yur not the shariff? One o' his constables, then, I s'pose?”
”Neither one nor other,” I replied, pocketing the affront.
”An' who air ye, anyhow--wi' yur dam glitterin' b.u.t.tons, an' yur waist drawd in, like a skewered skunk?”
This was intolerable; but remembering the advice of my Nashville friend--with some additional counsel I had received over-night--I strove hard to keep down my rising choler.
”My name,” said I--
”Durn yur name!” exclaimed the giant, interrupting me; ”I don't care a dog-gone for yur name: tell me yur bizness--that's what I wanter know.”
”I have already told you my business: I wish to see Mr Holt--Hick Holt, if you like.”
”To _see_ Hick Holt? Wal, ef that's all yur bizness, you've _seed_ him; an' now ye kin go.”
This was rather a literal interpretation of my demand; but, without permitting myself to be _nonplussed_ by it, or paying any heed to the abrupt words of dismissal, I replied, half interrogatively: ”You, then, are he? You are Hick Holt, I suppose?”
”Who said I ain't--durn your imperence? Now, then, what d'ye want wi'