In three months the meeting was called, and due notice served on Mr Abe Pike and his goat. It was a full house that met in the drowsy afternoon in the big shed on Mr Hockey’s farm, and the discussion turned at once on the disposal of Abe’s money—the general opinion being that it should be given back.
“I object,” said Si Amos, who had brought with him a huge and hideous half-breed between a boar-hound and a mongrel. “That ole man’s been throwing slurs on this club, and it’s my opinion he ought to pay for it. Anyhow, I’ll ‘psa’ my dog on to his goat.”
Last of all, Abe Pike himself entered the shed, wearing an expression of profound despondency.
“Anyone got a pipe of tobacco?” he said, looking around gloomily.
There was no tobacco hospitably forthcoming, everyone being too disgusted at the thought that all the fun was off.
Abe leant wearily against the wall. “Time was,” he said, “when a man would hand you his tobacco bag as he said ‘Good-morning.’ There’s a natural meanness in pizening animiles, and it’s jes’ oozing out of yer.”
“Where’s your goat, you old humbug?”
“Gentlemen, I’m very sorry, but that goat’s woke up with a most awful temper, and I jes’ drop in t’ ask you voetsack all the dogs outer the place ’fore I bring him in.”
“Yah!” said Si Amos; “I knew he’d back down. It was part of the bet that dogs was to be brought.”
“That’s so,” said Mr Hockey.