"Yo bane go hell."
The big Englishman sprang back, swept up a broken pick-handle half
buried in the sand, and leaped forward. As he leaped he swung the bit
of heavy, hard wood above his head. The Swede dropped his reins and
threw up his arms to guard himself, but the pick-handle, wielded in a
great, sinewy right hand, beat down his arms and struck him a crashing
blow across his forehead. Conniston heard the thud of it where he
stood. The Swede's arms flew out and he went down like a steer in a
slaughter-house.
"You bloody spoonbill!" cried the Englishman, standing over the
prostrate body. "Wot are you laying down for? Get hup, hor Hi'll beat
the bloody 'ead hoff your bloody shoulders! Get hup!"
Slowly, weakly, reeling as he got upon his knees, the Swede rose to
his feet. A great, smoldering, cold-blooded wrath shone in his blue
eyes, mingled with a surly fear. He made no motion toward the man who
stood three feet from him threatening him. Nor did he stir toward his
fallen reins. Instead he turned half about toward the camp.
"I bane quit," he muttered, thickly. "I bane get my time."
"Quit!" yelled Ben--"quit, will you!"
The Swede muttered something which Conniston did not catch. Ben took
one short, quick step forward, swinging his pick-handle high above his
head. For a moment the Swede paused, hesitating. And then, again
muttering, he stooped, picked up his reins, and swung his team back
into the cut.
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