“I did and do,” answered Frank calmly. “This is our home, Mr. Dorsett, not a public highway.”
Dorsett uttered a terrific snort of rage. He brandished his cane, struck out with it, and its end went through the panes of both the upper and the raised lower sash.
Frank receded a step, unhurt, with the words:
“Very well. You will pay for that damage, I suppose you know. You will get no further rent until you repair it.”
“Rent!” roared the frenzied Dorsett. “You’ll never pay me rent again. I’ll show you. Tenants at will, ha! Can’t stroll around my own property, hey? Why, I’ll—I’ll crush you.”
“Mr. Dorsett,” spoke up the widow in a dignified tone, “it is true this is your property, but you have no right to spy upon us. You took away our dog—”
“Who says so—who says so?” shouted the infuriated man.
“Christmas himself will say so in an unmistakable manner if I let him loose at you,” answered Frank. “The poundmaster at Riverton might be a credible witness, also.”
“You’ll pay for this, oh, but you’ll pay for this!” snarled the wretched old man as he limped away to the street.