Now a moment before his handsome face had been a picture of indolent good temper, but at the kick and the howl his face changed. The lips grew set, the eyes stern and fierce. He was not a good young man—alas, alas! it will be seen that he was a thousand miles removed from that—but his heart was as tender as a woman's, and he loved dumb animals—dogs and horses in especial—with that love of which only a strong, healthy, young Englishman is capable.
"You brute!" he said, not loudly, but with an intense emphasis, which caused the man to pull up and stare at him with an astonished scowl.
"Did you speak to me, guv'nor?" he growled.
He was a tall, wiry-looking ruffian, and his voice seemed to proceed from the bottom of his chest, and the glance he shot at the speaker came from a pair of evil-looking eyes, deeply sunk beneath thick and black brows.
"I did!" said the young man curtly; "I called you a brute!" and he stooped and comforted the dog.
The man eyed him up and down with a vindictive glare.
"Can't I kick my own dawg?" he demanded, with a most atrocious attempt at a sneer.
"Not when I am near," said the young man, quite calmly, but meeting the glare of the evil eyes with a steady firmness.
"Oh, I can't, can't I?" retorted the man. "You get out of the way and I'll show you, curse you!"
The young man stepped aside, apparently to leave the dog exposed to the threatened assault, but as the man lifted his foot the young fellow thrust his own forward, and launching out with his left hand, dealt the man a blow which sent him a mass of arms and legs against the doorway.