“You won’t turn out your dogs?”
“No sir! But this yer dog’ll eat your goat, and I give you fair warning!” said Si, stirring the big mongrel with his toe.
Abe looked round, gave me a wink, and went out.
When he reappeared he was leading one of the biggest goats—a great blue “Kapater,” with a long beard, massive horns, and a boss of leather and brass over his forehead.
“Well I’m jiggered!” said one member, getting behind the table.
Someone—I don’t know who the rash individual was—said “psa,” and the big mongrel stood up, showing his teeth and growling in his throat.
Abe smiled sadly, let go his hold of the goat, pinched his ear, and then the great rout of the Poison Club began. The goat walked briskly up to the dog, reared up, brought his head down, and sent the mongrel smash under the table, where he remained whimpering; then in a brace, at a whistle from his master, the unnatural billy cleared the shed with the effectiveness of a battering ram. At the outset the strong man of the country tried to seize him by the horns, but he evaded the grasp and shot his massive enemy over a form; and when the others fled, he butted them from behind so that each man flew out headlong, helping to swell the struggling pile at the doorway. After this feat he amused himself by reducing the table and chairs to splinters, then he came to the door and stood scratching his ear with his left hind foot, while chewing the remains of the minute book.
“Fetch me a gun,” yelled Si Amos, with his hand pressed to his waistcoat.
“What will you take for that thunderstorm, Abe?” asked Mr Hockey, tenderly feeling his elbow.
“You don’t want to buy him so’s you can shoot him?”