Lord, man, I wish you'd get out of this and go home.

You see they're an ugly lot and don't use toy pistols." "Remember the potato sack! That's my watchword," laughed Claiborne.
They rode with their eyes straight ahead, peering through the breaking, floating mist.

It was now so clear and light that they could see the wood at either hand, though fifty yards ahead in every direction the fog still lay like a barricade.
"I should value a change of raiment," observed Armitage.

"There was an advantage in armor--your duds might get rusty on a damp excursion, but your shirt wouldn't stick to your hide." "Who cares?
Those devils are pretty quiet, and the little sergeant is about due to bump into them again." They had come to a gradual turn in the road at a point where a steep, wooded incline swept up on the left.

On the right lay the old hunting preserve and Armitage's bungalow.