He laughed good-humouredly.
"I've a notion the beast would make a nice pet. What'll you sell him for, you fellow?"
The gipsy took no notice; he thought that Fleming was fooling him. He raised his stick threateningly, but before the sharp point, which the bear had learnt to know and fear, could descend, it was twisted out of his hands.
"Might is right," said Peter, with a broad grin.
The man was angry; his was a nature that could ill brook crossing. He clenched his fists, and came nearer, but he looked twice at his antagonist, and decided that discretion was the better part of valour. Peter was not only broader than himself, but taller, and he had heard that the gentleman was a great wrestler.
"Ho, my good fellow," said Fleming, "are you going to fight me for him? Better come into the inn and settle the matter over a pot of beer."
"What do you want the bear for, master?"
"To play with—poodles aren't in my line. I need something big. Besides, I've an idea you'll be sending him to the knacker's in a week or two, and I'd like to save him from such a fate."
The gipsy looked him over, wondering if he were in jest or earnest.
"Honest! quite honest!" said Peter, reading the man's glance.