“Shucks!” he snorted. “You might tell me, now. I don’t want to wait and get s’prised. I want to know now. Tell me!”
Under her tolerant smile, the youngster’s voice scaled to an impatient whine. He was beginning to grow red.
“Let it go at that!” ordained the Master. “Don’t spoil your own fun, by trying to find out, beforehand. Be a good sportsman.”
“Fun!” snarled Cyril. “What’s the fun of secrets? I want to know—”
"It’s snowing," observed the Mistress, as a handful of flakes began to drift past the windows, tossed along on a puff of wind.
“I want to know!” half-wept the child; angry at the change of subject, and noting that the Mistress was moving toward the next room, with Lad at her heels. “Come back and tell me!”
He stamped after her to bar her way. Lad was between the irate Cyril and the Mistress. In babyish rage at the dog’s placid presence in his path, he drew back one ungainly foot and kicked the astonished collie in the ribs.
At the outrage, Lad spun about, a growl in his throat. But he forbore to bite or even to show his teeth. The growl had been of indignant protest at such unheard-of treatment; not a menace. Then the dog stalked haughtily to his cave, and lay down there.
But the human witnesses to the scene were less forbearing;—being only humans. The Mistress cried out, in sharp protest at the little brute’s action. And the Master leaned forward, swinging Cyril clear of the ground. Holding the child firmly, but with no roughness, the Master steadied his own voice as best he could; and said:
“This time you’ve not even bothered to wait till our backs were turned. So don’t waste breath by crying and saying you didn’t do it. You’re not my child; so I have no right to punish you. And I’m not going to. But I want you to know you’ve just kicked something that’s worth fifty of you.”