They looked at him uncertainly, Proutt growling. And Saladine spat on the ground as though he tasted the unclean. “I’ve kept my mouth shut. Wanted to see. Meant to tell it in the end. Westley, Proutt broke your dog.”
Westley nodded. “Yes.” He looked at Proutt.
Westley began to tremble, and he could not take his eyes from Saladine; and Proutt broke out in a roaring oath, till Saladine turned slowly upon him.
The deer hunter went on: “I waited to see. I knowed what would come; but I wanted to see. A bird dog’s bred to birds. If he’s bred right, it’s in him. Reck’s bred right. You can make him run deer. Proutt did. But you can’t make him like it. Birds is his meat. You saw that just now. He didn’t pay any heed to that buck; but he did pay heed to the pa’tridge.”
Proutt cried: “Damn you, Saladine, you can’t say a thing like that.”
Saladine cut in: “I saw you. Month ago. Down by Fuller’s Brook. A deer crossed there, up into the meadow. You was in the alders with Reck, and you tried to set him on. He wouldn’t run, and you drove him. I saw you, Proutt.”
Westley looked down at Reck; and he looked at Proutt, the trainer; and he looked back at Reck again. There was something in Reck’s eyes which made him hot and angry; there was a pleading something in Reck’s slowly wagging tail.... And Westley turned to Proutt, cool enough now; and he said:
“I can see it now, Proutt. I’ve known there was something, felt there was something.” He laughed joyously. “Why, Proutt, you man who knows dogs. Didn’t you know you could not kill the soul and the honor of a dog like mine? Reck is a thoroughbred. He knows his work. And you—”
He moved a little toward the other. “Proutt,” he said, “I’m going to lick you till you can’t stand.”