He recalled what Claire had said of the Caesars' fierce distaste for the word "conch." Also, throughout the South, "clay-eater," has ever been a fighting word.
Brice had not gauged his insults in vain.

Instantly, the captive's head twisted, like that of a pinioned pit terrier, in a frenzied effort to drive his teeth into the hand or arm of his captor.

Failing this, he spluttered into rapid-fire speech.
"Ah'm not a conch!" he rasped, his voice sounding as rusty as an unused hinge.

"Ah'm a Caesar, yo' dirty Yank! Tuhn me loose, yo'! Ah ain't hurt nuthin'." "How did you get in here ?" bellowed Milo, advancing threateningly on the youth, and swinging aloft one of his hamlike fists.
The intruder stiffened into silence and stolid rigidity.
Unflinchingly, he eyed the oncoming giant.

Brice motioned Standish back.
"No use," said he.