"Hey!" roared Swipe-eye Weller, pointing to the laden trees outside the enclosure, "ef you think I'm agoin' to pay a dollar for this here show jest because I ain't no tree-climbin' animal, you're pickin' out the wrong customer. They coughs up a screamer apiece, or this act don't begin actin'. That's final!"
Nothing loath, Webfoot claimed the penalty from the crowd perched in the trees, in some instances not without the aid of his six-shooter, and the jack was then turned loose in the palisade.
"He's eatin' grass," piped up old Grease-top Jamie. "Say, I can see twenty jackasses eatin', down to the boardin' house at Blue Tent any day, an' I don't have to pay no dollar, neither. Turn out ye'r baar!"
"Hi! Here he comes! Eat 'im up, jack! Why, that ain't no grizzly. Sufferin' stars, he's only a little scared cinnamon."
"He's goin' after mister-old-donk, though."
"Ye-aw. Lookin' fer protection. Hey, look at the donk landin' kicks on 'is ribs. Ride 'im baar! Claw 'im up! Give 'im - " but the little cinnamon bear reached the fence in three jumps, scaled it, and took to the grease-wood thickets in record time in spite of the yells and bullets of the disgruntled spectators.
Webfoot had made even better time than the bear, and only the placid jack remained as a memento of the occasion. He was taken at the head of a long procession of miners and made the occasion for a call upon the whole round of fandango houses, and dispensaries of liquid rowdyism in the camp.
"Partners, aren't you getting somewhat rough with the little fellow?" asked a young man in unimpeachable black broadcloth.