"Any room for a feller o' my size in this here crowded place?" it
demanded in a cracked but cheerful tenor. "I'm kind o' outen
breath a runnin' to git here."
They turned about. It was Oncle Jazon with his long rifle on his
shoulder and wearing a very important air. He spoke in English,
using the backwoods lingo with the ease of long practice.
"As I's a comin' in f'om a huntin' I tuck notice 'at somepin' was
up. I see a lot o' boats on the river an' some fellers wi' guns a
scootin' around, so I jes' slipped by 'em all an' come in the back
way. They's plenty of 'em, I tell you what! I can't shoot much,
but I tuck one chance at a buck Indian out yander and jes'
happened to hit 'im in the lef' eye. He was one of the gang 'at
scalped me down yander in Kaintuck."
The greasy old sinner looked as if he had not been washed since he
was born. He glanced about with furtive, shifty eyes, grimaced and
winked, after the manner of an animal just waking from a lazy nap.
"Where's the rest o' the fighters?" he demanded quizzically,
lolling out his tongue and peeping past Helm so as to get a
glimpse of the English line. "Where's yer garrison? Have they all
gone to breakfas'?"
The last question set Helm off again cursing and swearing in the
most melodramatic rage.
Oncle Jazon turned to Beverley and said in rapid French: "Surely
the man's not going to fight those fellows yonder?"
Beverley nodded rather gloomily.
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