e!" cried the old woman's strident
voice as her powerful arms swung her lusty broom aloft. "I'll teach
you, you scallawag!" Thwack fell the broom, and, releasing Joan, the
man sought to protect his head with his arms. "I'll give you a dose
you won't fergit, you scum o' creation!" Thwack went the broom again.
"Wait till the folks hear tell o' this, you miser'ble, miser'ble cur!"
Again the broom fell, and the man turned to flee. "You'd run, would
you? Git a fork, Miss Joan!" With a surprising rush the fat creature
lunged another smash at the man's head with her favorite weapon.

The blow fell short, for Ike had made good his retreat. And curiously
enough he made no attempt to disarm her, or otherwise stand his ground
once he was beyond the range of her blows. Perhaps he realized the
immensity of his outrage, perhaps he foresaw what might be the result
to himself when the story of his assault reached the camp. Perhaps it
was simply that he had a wholesome terror of this undoubted virago.
Anyway, he bolted for his horse and vaulted into the saddle, galloping
away as though pursued by something far more hurtful than a fat
farm-wife's avalanche of vituperation.

"Mussy on us!" cried the old woman, flinging her broom to the ground
as the man passed out of sight. "Mussy me, wot's he done to you, my
pretty?" she cried, rushing to the girl's side and catching her to her
great bosom. "There, there, don't 'e cry, don't 'e to cry for a
scallawag like that," she said, as the girl buried her face on her
shoulder and sobbed as though her heart would break. "There, there,"
she went on, patting the girl's shoulder, "don't 'e demean yerself
weppin' over a miser'ble skunk like that. Kiss yer, did he? Kiss yer!
Him! Wal, he won't kiss nobody no more when the folks is put wise. An'
I'll see they gets it all. You, a 'Merican gal, kissed by a hog like
that. Here, wipe yer cheeks wi' this overall; guess they'll sure
fester if you don't. Ther', that's better," she went on as Joan,
choking back her sobs, presently released herself from her bear-like
embrace.

"It's my own fault," the girl said tearfully. "I ought never to have
spoken to him at all. I----"

But Mrs. Ransford gave her no chance to finish what she had to say.

"Wot did I tell you?" she cried, with a power of self-righteousness.
"Wot did I tell you? You ain't got no right to git a hob-a-nobbin'
with sech scum. They're all scallawags, every one of 'em. Men!--say,
these yer hills