“It’s guilt,” said Amanda, restoring the hen to her four eggs. “When a dog has been stealin’ eggs, an’ you rub his nose in the nest, he always looks that way.”
“Besides, there’s the yaller on his nose,” said Gabriel. “Napoleon, you’re goin’ to git th’ lickin’ of your lifetime.”
“Wait,” said Galatea. “That’s yellow paint on Napoleon’s nose. I repainted some croquet balls yesterday, and he’s been playing with them.”
“Ah,” said the Poet, “think of all the innocent men who have been hanged on circumstantial evidence.”
“It’s egg,” said Gabriel stubbornly.
“It’s paint,” said Galatea. “Gabriel, don’t you dare punish Napoleon.”
“At least it’s a case for the experts,” observed the Poet. “We must have a chemical analysis of Napoleon’s nose before he can be convicted.”
“Gosh!” said Gabriel, “what a lot of fuss all on account of a dog.”
“You forget,” said Galatea. “Napoleon is a member of our family; we’re all on terms of equality here.”
During this argument for and against the guilt of Napoleon, Clarence, with his head through a small window in the wall which separated his stall from the hennery, had been an interested spectator. As though to indicate his approval of Galatea’s last remark, he bared his teeth and nipped Gabriel sharply in the region of his hip pocket.