TIBERIUS SMITH
carded all frills and fancies and meant just plain, ugly business. In a second they were a revolving wheel of legs and arms.
"‘Soak him!' I howled, dancing up and down, and suddenly the bunch flew into two pieces, and each piece finally quieted down and resolved itself into a man. Tib was the man standing.
"‘I feel kind of cheap,' he grinned, feebly.
"But, dear, dear! if you only could have seen Chuck! He sat perfectly quiet, gazing abstractly at a tree, only moving to cautiously place his hand on his jaw. And the astounded crowd saw the swarthy flesh puff out to the size of an orange. You see, sir, Tib had been unable to really injure his iron frame and bullet head heretofore. He had made him smart, had pestered him, but he hadn't really weakened him any. That smash on the jaw with the hammer-head was like having the elevated hit you. And the mob, always having believed him invincible, couldn't understand it.
"When he staggered to his feet he lurched to Tib with open hands, and sorrowfully and carefully examined the death-dealing knuckles. Then he shook his head gingerly and croaked: 'Big medicine. White man's Shaman is great spirit.'
"‘I'm a Methodist,' said Tib, grimly, keeping this brass knuckle from all human ken.
"‘Methodist big medicine,' repeated Chuck,
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