"I'll teach you, you miser'ble hoboe!" cried the old woman's strident voice as her powerful arms swung her lusty broom aloft. "I'll teach you, you scallawag!" Thwack fell the broom, and, releasing Joan, the man sought to protect his head with his arms. "I'll give you a dose you won't fergit, you scum o' creation!" Thwack went the broom again. "Wait till the folks hear tell o' this, you miser'ble, miser'ble cur!" Again the broom fell, and the man turned to flee. "You'd run, would you? Git a fork, Miss Joan!" With a surprising rush the fat creature lunged another smash at the man's head with her favorite weapon.
The blow fell short, for Ike had made good his retreat. And curiously enough he made no attempt to disarm her, or otherwise stand his ground once he was beyond the range of her blows. Perhaps he realized the immensity of his outrage, perhaps he foresaw what might be the result to himself when the story of his assault reached the camp. Perhaps it was simply that he had a wholesome terror of this undoubted virago. Anyway, he bolted for his horse and vaulted into the saddle, galloping away as though pursued by something far more hurtful than a fat farm-wife's avalanche of vituperation.
"Mussy on us!" cried the old woman, flinging her broom to the ground as the man passed out of sight. "Mussy me, wot's he done to you, my pretty?" she cried, rushing to the girl's side and catching her to her great bosom. "There, there, don't 'e cry, don't 'e to cry for a scallawag like that," she said, as the girl buried her face on her shoulder and sobbed as though her heart would break. "There, there," she went on, patting the girl's shoulder, "don't 'e demean yerself weppin' over a miser'ble skunk like that. Kiss yer, did he? Kiss yer! Him! Wal, he won't kiss nobody no more when the folks is put wise. An' I'll see they gets it all. You, a 'Merican gal, kissed by a hog like that. Here, wipe yer cheeks wi' this overall; guess they'll sure fester if you don't. Ther', that's better," she went on as Joan, choking back her sobs, presently released herself from her bear-like embrace.
"It's my own fault," the girl said tearfully. "I ought never to have spoken to him at all. I----"
But Mrs. Ransford gave her no chance to finish what she had to say.
"Wot did I tell you?" she cried, with a power of self-righteousness. "Wot did I tell you? You ain't got no right to git a hob-a-nobbin' with sech scum. They're all scallawags, every one of 'em. Men!--say, these yer hills is the muck-hole o' creation, an' the men is the muck. I orter know. Didn't I marry George D. Ransford, an' didn't I raise twins by him, as you might say, an' didn't I learn thereby, an' therewith, as the sayin' is, that wi' muck around there's jest one way o' cleanin' it up an' that's with a broom! Come right into the house, pretty. You're needin' hot milk to soothe your nerves, my pore, pore! Come right in. Guess I'm a match fer any male muck around these hills. Mussy on us, what's that!"