“Domestic!” echoed Mr. Oldreive, bitterly. “About so domestic as a auld red fox I sent off wi’ a flea in his ear two nights since. Domestic! He pretends to be to gain his private ends. Just a savage, cruel, awnself [119] beast of prey, an’ no better. Can’t shutt foxes, ’cause they’m the backbone of England; but I can shutt cats an’—an’—”
“Stop theer!” roared the other ancient. He trembled with passion; his under jaw chattered; he lifted his legs up and down and cracked the joints of his fingers.
“To think I’ve knawed ’e all these years an’ never seed through to the devilish nature of ’e! ’Tis sporting as makes men all the same—no better’n heathen savages.”
The other kept calm before this shattering criticism.
“Whether or no, I doan’t breed these here phaysants for fun, nor yet for your cat’s eatin’. No call to quarrel, I should hope. But keep un his own side the wall if you please, else he’s like to have an onrestful time. I give ’e fair warning.”
“Perhaps you’d wish for me to chain un up?”
“Might be better—for him if you did.”
“I doan’t want you in my house to-night,” said the owner of ‘Corban’ suddenly. “You’ve shook me. You’ve shook a friendship of more’n fifty year standing, Amos Oldreive, an’ I can’t abear to look upon your face again to-day.”
“More shame to you, Noah Sage! If you reckon your mangy cat be more to you than a gude Christian neighbour, say so. But I ban’t gwaine to fall down an’ worship thicky varmint—no, not for twenty men, so now you knaw.”
“So much for friendship then,” answered Noah Sage, wagging his head.