The old man solemnly touched his hat and said: “God.”
“O, I see, yes, yes,” cried the Rev. Scroope. “Well, good health and constant, and good work and plenty of it, are glorious things. The man who has never done a day’s work is a dog, and the man who deceives his master is a dog too.”
“I never donn that, sir.”
“And you’ve had happy days in Thasper, I’m sure?”
“Right-a-many, sir.”
“Splendid. Well ... um ... what a heavy rain we had in the night.”
“Ah, that was heavy! At five o’clock this morning I daren’t let my ducks out—they’d a bin drownded, sir.”
“Ha, now, now, now!” warbled the rector as he turned away with Dan.
“Capital old fellow, happy and contented. I wish there were more of the same breed. I wish....” The parson sighed pleasantly as he and Dan walked on together until they came to the village street where swallows were darting and flashing very low. A small boy stood about, trying to catch them in his hands as they swooped close to him. Dan’s own dog pranced up to his master for a greeting. It was black, somewhat like a greyhound, but stouter. Its tail curled right over its back and it was cocky as a bird, for it was young; it could fight like a tiger and run like the wind—many a hare had had proof of that.
Said Mr. Scroope, eyeing the dog: “Is there much poaching goes on here?”