"Father ..." said Brute.
Goat turned his eyes to Brute, and savage irritation swept over him. With that word, at that moment, Brute gave him a feeling of guilty foreboding.
"Don't call me 'father!'" snapped Goat angrily.
"But you say call you father," protested Brute, the puzzled frown wrinkling his brow. "What I call you if I not call you father?"
"Don't call me anything. Say 'sir.' What did you want to say?"
"Father, sir," began Brute again, "Adam forget. Adam fall."
With a muted roar, Adam swept his powerful arm in a backhanded arc that caught Brute full on the side of his head. The blow would have felled an ox, but Brute was not shaken. Apparently unhurt, he stood patiently, his blue eyes on Goat with something of pleading in them.
"Adam, let him alone!" commanded Goat sharply. "Brute, what do you mean, Adam fell?"
"We come back. We not far from canal. Adam fall. Adam sick. Adam turn blue."
"It is lies, father!" exclaimed Adam, glaring at Brute. "It is not true."