Think of a big grizzly trying to hug you! Where would your little knife
be, then? You'd soon wish you had that Cuban machete that hangs on the
wall of your father's den, Frank," he said, when the other expostulated
with him about purchasing such a murderous-looking weapon.
And Bluff did buy it, too. All the way home he kept tabs on that
package, and often, when Frank was not looking, he would go through
certain gestures with it gripped in his hand, as though practicing
against that day when the aforesaid grizzly and he would have their
little heated argument for supremacy.
Jerry, too, either felt shocked at the enormous size of the wonderful
hunting-knife, or else pretended to be. He shrugged his shoulders in
that scornful way he had, and turned his back on the prize Bluff had
drawn.
"What else could you expect of a man who goes after quail with a Gatling
gun? Why, the poor innocent grizzly will faint dead away at sight of
that cavalry sword. It gives me a cold chill just to look at it," he
observed.
Bluff only laughed.
"Rank envy eating up your soul, that's all, my boy.
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