At once concluding that Lad had bitten his son's bleeding hand, the irate father swung aloft a chair and strode to the rescue.
Lad saw him coming.
With the lightning swiftness of his kind he whirled to one side as the mass of wood descended. The chair missed him by a fraction of an inch and splintered into pieces. It was a Chippendale, and had belonged to the Mistress' great grandparents.
For the first time in all his blameless life Lad broke the sacred Guest Law by growling at a vouched-for visitor. But surely this fat bellower was no guest! Lad looked at his gods for information.
"Down, Lad!" said the Master very gently, his voice not quite steady.
Lad, perplexed but obedient, dropped to the floor.
"The brute tried to kill my boy!" stormed the Wall Street Farmer right dramatically as he caught the howling Morty up in his arms to study the extent of the wound.
"He's my guest! He's my guest! HE'S MY GUEST! the Master was saying over and over to himself. "Lord, help me to keep on remembering he's my GUEST!"
The Mistress came forward.
"Lad would sooner die than hurt a child," she declared, trying not to think of the wrecked heirloom chair. "He loves children. Here, let me see Morty's hand. Why, those are claw-marks! Cat scratches!"