—“Of dog’s flesh.”
At these words the company was filled with terror and indignation.
“Devil take it ... what low-down scoundrelism!” exclaimed Jack.
“I shall faint ... I feel so ill,” murmured the greyhound.
“That’s dreadful ... dreadful ...” moaned the dachshund.
“I’ve always said that men were scoundrels,” snarled the mouse-coloured dog.
“What a strange death!” sighed Bouton.
But from the dark corner was heard once more the voice of the violet-coloured dog. With gloomy and cynical sarcasm he said:
“The soup’s not so bad, though—it’s not at all bad, though, of course, some ladies who are accustomed to eat chicken cutlets would find dog’s flesh a little too tough.”
The poodle paid no attention to this rude remark, but went on: