couldn't
arrest one side of me. You couldn't arrest one of my old boots!
Listen, George! You heard this Chris-gentleman give his reasons for
wanting peace? Yes? Well, it's oh-so-different here. I hate peace! I
loathe, detest, abhor, and abominate peace! My very soul with strong
disgust is stirred--by peace! I'm growing younger every year, I don't
own any property here, I'm not going to be married; I ain't feeling
pretty well anyhow; and if you don't think I'll shoot, try to get
up! Just look as if you thought you wanted to wish to try to make an
effort to get up."

"How--who----" began Creagan; but Pringle cut him short.

"Ask me no more, sweet! You have no speaking part here. We'll do the
talking. I just love to talk. I am the original tongue-tied man; I ebb
and flow. Don't let me hear a word from any of you! Well, pardner?"

Foy, still kneeling in fascinated amaze, now rose. Creagan's nose was
bleeding profusely.

"That was one awful wallop you handed our gimlet-eyed friend," said
Pringle admiringly. "Neatest bit of work I ever saw. Sir, to you! My
compliments!" He placed a chair near the front door and sat down. "I
feel like a lion in a den of Daniels," he sighed.

"But how did you happen to be here so handy?" inquired Foy.

"Didn't happen--I did it on purpose," said John Wesley. "You see,
these four birds tipped their hand. All evening they been instructing
me where I got off. They would-ed I had the wings of a dove, so I
might fly far, far away and be at rest. Now, I put it to you, do I
look like a dove?"

"Not at present," laughed Foy.

"Well, I didn't like it--nobody would. I see there was a hen on, I
knew the lay of the ground from looking after my horse. So I
clomped off to bed, got my good old Excalibur gun--full name X.L.V.
Caliber--slipped off my boots, tippytoed down the back stairs like a
Barred Rock cat, oozed in by the side door--and here I be! I overheard
their pleasant little plan to do you. I meant to do the big rescue
act, but you mobilize too quick for me. All the same, maybe it's as
well I chipped in, because--take a look at them cartridges in your
gun, will you? Your own gun--the one they borrowed from you."

Foy twisted a bullet from a cartridge. There was no powder. The four
men on the floor looked unhappy under his thoughtful eye.

"Nice little plant--what? Do we kill 'em?" said Pringle cheerfully. "I
don't know the rules well enough to break them. What was the big idea?
Was they