y pretty big of what they was goin'
to do, but I don't think they'll do much. They don't look that kind.
Anyway, if there's goin' to be a fight, I'd feel safer with the Boss
than with the whole lot of 'em."

"The letter after this," went on Kate, "tells of what happened the
Sunday following."

"We'd gone out in the afternoon, Boss and me, for a walk, and when we
got back the camp was just howlin' drunk, and the foreman was worst of
all. They kind o' quieted down for a little when we come in and let us
get into the office, but pretty soon they began actin' up funny again
and swearin' most awful. Then I see the Boss shut up his lips hard, and
I says to myself 'Look out for blood.' Then he starts over for the bunk
shanty. I was mighty scared, and follered him close. Just as we shoved
open the door a bottle come singin' through the air and smashed to a
thousand bits on the beam above. 'Is that the kind of cowards you
are?' says the Boss, quite cool. He didn't speak loud, but I tell you
everybody heard him and got dead still. 'No, Boss,' says one feller,
'not all.' 'The man that threw that bottle,' says the boss, 'is a
coward, and the meanest kind. He's afraid to step out here for five
minutes.' Nobody moved. 'Step up, ye baste,' says an Irishman, 'or it's
mesilf will kick ye out of the camp.' And out the feller comes. It was
the same duck that the Boss scared out of the door the first night.
'Sthand up till 'im Billie,' says the Irishman; 'we'll see fair play.
Sthand up to the gintleman.' 'Billie,' says the Boss, and his eyes was
blazin' like candles; 'yer goin' to leave this camp to-morrow mornin'.
You can take your choice; will you get onto your knees now or later?'
With that Billie whipped out a knife and rushes at him; but the Boss
grabs his wrist and gives it a twist, and the knife fell onto the floor.
The Boss holds him like a baby, and picks up the knife and throws it
into the fire. 'Now,' says he, 'get onto your knees. Quick!' And the
feller drops on his knees, and bellered like a calf.

"'Let's pray,' says some one, and the crowd howls. 'Give us yer hand,
Boss,' says the Irishman. 'Yer the top o' this gang.' The Irishman
shoves out his clipper, and the Boss takes it in an easy kind of a way.
My you o't to seen that Irishman squirm. 'Howly Mither!' he yells, and
dances round, 'what do ye think yer got?' and he goes off lookin' at his
fingers, and the Boss stands lookin' at 'em, and says, 'You'r a nice
lot of