The cudgel spun high in air, and catching it with an expertness acquired by long practice on the line, the boy twirled it a second, shook back his thick hair bonnily, and stepping into the trail, followed Wessner.  Because Freckles was Irish, it was impossible to do it silently, so presently his clear tenor rang out, though there were bad catches where he was hard pressed for breath: 

     “It was the Dutch.  It was the Dutch. 
     Do you think it was the Irish hollered help? 
     Not much! 
     It was the Dutch.  It was the Dutch——­”

Wessner turned and mumbled:  “What you following me for?  What are you going to do with me?”

Freckles called the Limberlost to witness:  “How’s that for the ingratitude of a beast?  And me troubling mesilf to show him off me territory with the honors of war!”

Then he changed his tone completely and added:  “Belike it’s this, Freddy.  You see, the Boss might come riding down this trail any minute, and the little mare’s so wheedlesome that if she’d come on to you in your prisint state all of a sudden, she’d stop that short she’d send Mr. McLean out over the ears of her.  No disparagement intinded to the sinse of the mare!” he added hastily.

Wessner belched a fearful oath, while Freckles laughed merrily.

“That’s a sample of the thanks a generous act’s always for getting,” he continued.  “Here’s me neglictin’ me work to eschort you out proper, and you saying such awful words Freddy,” he demanded sternly, “do you want me to soap out your mouth?  You don’t seem to be realizing it, but if you was to buck into Mr. McLean in your prisint state, without me there to explain matters the chance is he’d cut the liver out of you; and I shouldn’t think you’d be wanting such a fine gintleman as him to see that it’s white!”

Wessner grew ghastly under his grime and broke into a staggering run.

“And now will you be looking at the manners of him?” questioned Freckles plaintively.  “Going without even a ‘thank you,’ right in the face of all the pains I’ve taken to make it interesting for him!”

Freckles twirled the club and stood as a soldier at attention until Wessner left the clearing, but it was the last scene of that performance.  When the boy turned, there was deathly illness on his face, while his legs wavered beneath his weight.  He staggered to the case, and opening it he took out a piece of cloth.  He dipped it into the water, and sitting on a bench, he wiped the blood and grime from his face, while his breath sucked between his clenched teeth.  He was shivering with pain and excitement in spite of himself.  He unbuttoned the band of his right sleeve, and turning it back, exposed the blue-lined, calloused whiteness of his maimed arm, now vividly streaked with contusions, while in a series of circular dots the blood oozed slowly.  Here Wessner had succeeded in setting his teeth.  When Freckles saw what it was he forgave himself the kick in the pit of Wessner’s stomach, and cursed fervently and deep.