"Between 'em they was making enough racket to wake a dead man," replied Schwartz. "What with your dog's snarling and growling, and the poor sheep's bl'ats. And all the other sheep——"
"Yet, you say he had killed three sheep while you slept there—had killed them and carried or dragged their bodies away and come back again; and, presumably started a noisy panic in the flock every time. And none of that racket waked you until the fourth sheep was killed?"
"I was dog-tired," declared Schwartz. "I'd been at work in our south-mowing for ten hours the day before, and up since five. Mr. Romaine can tell you I'm a hard man to wake at best. I sleep like the dead."
"That's right!" assented Titus. "Time an' again, I have to bang at his door an' holler myself hoarse, before I can get him to open his eyes. My wife says he's the sleepin'est sleeper——"
"You ran out of the shed with your stick," resumed the Master, "and struck the dog before he could get away? And as he turned to run you kicked him?"
"Yes, sir. That's what I did."
"How hard did you hit him?"
"A pretty good lick," answered Schwartz, with reminiscent satisfaction. "Then I——"
"And when you hit him he slunk away like a whipped cur? He made no move to resent it? I mean, he did not try to attack you?"
"Not him!" asserted Schwartz, "I guess he was glad enough to get out of reach. He slunk away so fast, I hardly had a chance to land fair on him, when I kicked."