“Shoo!” said Amanda, waving her apron at Mrs. Cowslip, who merely gave her a mild look of reproach.
“Git back to th’ barn, all of ye,” commanded Gabriel, with no better result.
“Say it, Gabe,” said Amanda, stamping her foot.
“No,” answered Gabriel, “I mustn’t. It keeps their feelin’s hurt for a hull day. Th’ Perfessor wouldn’t like it.”
“I don’t care, Gabe, you jest say it.”
“Say what?” asked the Poet, overcome with curiosity.
“W’y,” explained Gabriel, “ye see, it’s th’ Perfessor’s idee that these critters are jest as good as he is. Ekel rights for man an’ beast, he calls it. You bet they’re willin’, consarn ’em! It’s only when they want to run th’ hull place that he resorts to extreme measures, as he says. Then he shouts a queer, heathen word at ’em, an’ they sneak off like a dog caught suckin’ eggs.”
Out of regard for the Professor’s feelings Gabriel proceeded with such comparatively mild measures as flicking Mrs. Cowslip with his whip, and trying ineffectually to push the bull-calf toward the barn. The colt danced about, nipping at him with bared teeth. But it was Reginald who brought things to a climax. The pig, escaping the teeth of the terrier, ran between Gabriel’s legs, sending him sprawling on his back.
“Say it, Gabe,” called out Amanda.
“You bet I’ll say it!” Gabriel replied, rising and confronting the four-footed mutineers, now grouped as though conscious that they had carried matters a trifle too far. Throwing out his chest, Gabriel thundered the single word:—