52 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 
He leapt to his feet, seized a large soup ladle in 
one hand and advancing in front of Horace shook 
the other violently in his face. 
‘‘Ain’t you able to wait on yourself, you big 
stiff?’’ he yelled in a frenzy of rage. ‘‘D’you take 
me for a —— wet nurse, stannin’ round feedin’ 
you? I’m a great mind to knock the top of your 
head off, right now, and see what kind of a —— 
—— fillin’ you got in there.’’ 
Horace was nonplussed but rallied gallantly. 
‘‘Now see here, my man,’’ he retorted, in a voice 
which he strove to render cold and steely, ‘‘have a 
care. A certain person died once for less than you 
have said!’’ 
It was an awfully feeble bluff. Bert had called 
emany more difficult in the games both of.poker and 
of life. That ‘‘my man”’ phrase seemed to get him, 
too. Without a moment’s hesitation he whacked 
Horace over the head with the ladle and followed the 
blow with as ably selected an assortment of profane 
insult and invective as I, at least, had ever heard. 
He charged him with ignorance, cowardice, immo- 
rality, arson, burglary, and obtaining money under 
false pretences. He referred to him directly and 
indirectly in so many different ways as a person un- 
fit by birth, heredity, and education for association 
with honest men, that we blushed involuntarily for 
the offender and his presence in our midst. 
Bert ceased only when exhausted. He glared 
