Oldreive nodded over the party wall and glanced, not without suspicion, at ‘Corban,’ who chanced to be present.
“Let ’em taste game an’ it grows ’pon ’em like drink ’pon a human,” he said.
‘Corban’ stretched his thighs, cleaned his claws on a block of firewood, and feigned indifference. As a matter of fact, this big tabby tom knew all about the young pheasants; and Mr. Oldreive knew that he knew.
Sage, on the other hand, with an experience of the beast extending from infancy, through green youth to ripe prime, took it upon him to say that this cat was trustworthy, high-minded and actuated by motives he had never seen equalled for loftiness, even in a dog.
The old keeper snorted from his side of the wall.
“A dog! You wouldn’t compare thicky, green-eyed snake wi’ a dog, would ’e?”
“Not me,” answered the other. “No dog ever I knawed was worthy to wash his face for un. An’ he’m no more a green-eyed snake than your spaniel, though a good deal more of a gen’leman.”
“Us won’t argue it then, for I never knawed any use for cats myself but to plant at the root of a fruit-bearin’ tree,” said Mr. Oldreive, cynically.
“An’ I never seed no use for dogs, ’cept to keep gen’lefolks out of mischief,” answered Sage, who was a radical and no sportsman. He puffed, and grew a little red as he spoke.
Here, and thus, arose a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand. Noah Sage stumped indoors to his daughter, while ‘Corban’ followed with pensive step and a general air as though one should say, “I forgive, but I can’t forget.”