“They’s all ’fraid of me!” he chuckled. “This blacksmith, he better take off his leather apron ’fore I tangle him up in it.”
“What’s that?” old Spot demanded.
“Just a-talkin’ to my own self!” said Mistah Mule. “You better run long home, ole dog. You’s liable to git hurt if you stays ’round here. You might git kicked right into the fire.”
Old dog Spot edged away a bit and tucked his tail between his legs. But he didn’t intend to leave. He meant to see everything that happened. He only hoped Johnnie Green would be safe.
Suddenly the blacksmith began to whistle a lively tune, quite as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
“Bring the ropes!” he called to his helper, who looked just as strong as the blacksmith, even if he wasn’t so tall.
In a jiffy they had wrapped several loops of rope about Mistah Mule’s legs. He plunged and swayed. But the more he struggled, the tighter the blacksmith and his helper pulled the ropes. Finally the blacksmith untied Mistah Mule’s halter-strap. And soon Mistah Mule found himself lying upon the floor of the smithy.
Old dog Spot began to wag his tail and prance about Mistah Mule.
“Now what are you going to do?” he yelped. “You made all those threats. But the blacksmith is too smart for you. He’s got you where you can’t move.”
Mistah Mule lay quite still. His eyes were closed. And something very like a snore came from his soft nose. He made no sign that he had heard what old dog Spot said.