Three days later Mr. Oldreive looked over the wall, and his neighbour saw him, and put a hasty foot on some feathers.
“Marnin’, Sage. Look here—what I wants to knaw be, whether your blasted cat have took wan o’ my phaysants, or whether he haven’t?”
“Might have, might not, Amos. Better ax un. Here he be.”
Green-eyed innocence marked the fat round face of ‘Corban.’ He leapt upon the wall and saluted the breeder of pheasants with open-hearted friendship.
“What be onder your heel, neighbour?”
“Why—a bit of rabbit’s flax ’twas, I think. My sight ban’t so good as of old nowadays.”.
“Rabbit’s flax! ’Tis a phaysant’s feathers! Get away, you hookem-snivey Judas, or I’ll hit ’e over the chops!”
This last threat concerned ‘Corban,’ who was rubbing his whiskers against Mr. Oldreive’s waistcoat.
The ancient Sage puffed out his cheeks and grew as red as a rose.
“Ban’t the way to speak to any respectable, well-thought-upon domestic animal, an’ you knaw it, Amos.”