“Don’t you know no better’n to butt in?” retorted the wrathful hired man. “I’ll make this mangy cuss mind me, if I have to bust ev’ry bone in his wuthless carcass!”
By way of emphasising his intention, he lifted the amazed Buff clean off the ground on the end of the rope, and drew back one large-booted foot for a drop-kick at the swinging youngster that had dared to disobey him. The kick might well have smashed every rib in the soft young body, besides rupturing its victim. But it did not reach its mark.
The tired-looking man did two things, and he did them in practically the same gesture. With his left hand he jerked the rope from the calloused hand that held it, and lowered Buff gently to earth. With his right he caught the farm-hand deftly by the nape of the neck, spun him around, and bestowed upon him two swift but effective kicks.
Both kicks smote the amazed labourer approximately at the point where his short jacket’s hem met the seat of his trousers. As his assailant at the same time released his hold of the shirt-collar, his victim collapsed in a blasphemous heap at the gutter-edge.
Buff had been watching the brief exhibition with keen interest. Gradually it had been dawning on his unsophisticated mind that his escort was trying in some way to harm him, and that the stranger had not only averted the harm, but was punishing the aggressor.
So, in his babyhood, had Nina flown at a stable cat which had scratched Buff’s too-inquisitive nose. Once more the puppy knew the glad thrill of having a protector.
As the fallen man scrambled to his feet, the stranger felt a cold and grateful little nose thrust into his palm. Instinctively—and with unconscious proprietorship—his hand dropped lightly on the silken head of the dog. But he kept his tired eyes unwaveringly on the man whom he had assaulted.
The latter was on his feet again, swearing and gesticulating. But, all at once, in the middle of a contemplated rush at his antagonist, he checked himself and looked worriedly up and down the deserted lane. In case of interference—in case of court proceedings—he might have trouble in explaining his possession of the dog. A dozen persons in court might well recognise the puppy as belonging to Shawemere. And there would be difficulties—all manner of difficulties—perhaps a jail term. Decidedly it was a moment for wile, rather than for force. There were worse things than a kick. Jail was one of them.
“If you’re so stuck on the pup, why don’t you buy him?” he whined. “’Stead of pickin’ on a poor man what’s got a livin’ to earn? He’s for sale.”
“I’m not buying livestock——” began the stranger.