“Why, what’s the matter?”

“I telled ye that Benedict was no pauper, an’ ye say that ye’ve seen no pauper whose name was Benedict.  That’s jest tellin’ that he’s here.  Oh, ye can’t come that game!  Now begin agin, an’ write jest as I give it to ye.  ’I solem-ny sw’ar, s’welp me! that I hain’t seen no pauper, in no woods, whose name was Benedict.’”

“Done,” said Yates, “but it isn’t grammar.”

“Hang the grammar!” responded Jim; “what I want is sense.  Now jine this on:  ‘An’ I solem-ny sw’ar, s’welp me! that I won’t blow on Benedict, as isn’t a pauper—­no more nor Jim Fenton is—­an’ if so be as I do blow on Benedict—­I give Jim Fenton free liberty, out and out—­to lick me—­without goin’ to lor—­but takin’ the privlidge of self-defense.’”

Jim thought a moment.  He had wrought out a large phrase.

“I guess,” said he, “that covers the thing.  Ye understand, don’t ye, Yates, about the privlidge of self-defense?”

“You mean that I may defend myself if I can, don’t you?”

“Yes.  With the privlidge of self-defense.  That’s fair, an’ I’d give it to a painter.  Now read it all over.”

Jim put his head down between his knees, the better to measure every word, while Yates read the complete document.  Then Jim took the paper, and, handing it to Benedict, requested him to see if it had been read correctly.  Assured that it was all right, Jim turned his eyes severely on Yates, and said: 

“Sam Yates, do ye s’pose ye’ve any idee what it is to be licked by Jim Fenton?  Do ye know what ye’re sw’arin’ to?  Do ye reelize that I wouldn’t leave enough on ye to pay for havin’ a funeral?”

Yates laughed, and said that he believed he understood the nature of an oath.

“Then sign yer Happy David,” said Jim.

Yates wrote his name, and passed the paper into Jim’s hands.

“Now,” said Jim, with an expression of triumph on his face, “I s’pose ye don’t know that ye’ve be’n settin’ on a Bible; but it’s right under ye, in that chest, an’ it’s hearn and seen the whole thing.  If ye don’t stand by yer Happy David, there’ll be somethin’ worse nor Jim Fenton arter ye, an’ when that comes, ye can jest shet yer eyes, and gi’en it up.”

This was too much for both Yates and Benedict.  They looked into each other’s eyes, and burst into a laugh.  But Jim was in earnest, and not a smile crossed his rough face.

“Now,” said he, “I want to do a little sw’arin’ myself, and I want ye to write it.”

Yates resumed his pen, and declared himself to be in readiness.

“I solem-ny sw’ar,” Jim began, “s’welp me! that I will lick Sam Yates—­as is a lawyer—­with the privlidge of self-defense—­if he ever blows on Benedict—­as is not a pauper—­no more nor Jim Fenton is—­an’ I solem-ny sw’ar, s’welp me! that I’ll foller ’im till I find ‘im, an’ lick ’im—­with the privlidge of self-defense.”

Jim would have been glad to work in the last phrase again, but he seemed to have covered the whole ground, and so inquired whether Yates had got it all down.