You've a riling tongue when your back's up, Herrick.

Just be glad we're friends again, the same as what I am; and go tender on the raws; I'll see as you don't repent it.

We've been mighty near death this day--don't say whose fault it was!--pretty near hell, too, I guess.

We're in a mighty bad line of life, us two, and ought to go easy with each other.' He was maundering; yet it seemed as if he were maundering with some design, beating about the bush of some communication that he feared to make, or perhaps only talking against time in terror of what Herrick might say next.

But Herrick had now spat his venom; his was a kindly nature, and, content with his triumph, he had now begun to pity.