“Well,” said Anice, “what was he doing?”
“Aye,” cried the first youngster, “tha tell her if tha con. Who hit th' first punse?” excitedly doubling his fist again. “I didna.”
“Nay, tha didna, but tha did summat else. Tha punsed at Nib wi' thy clog, an' hit him aside o' th' yed, an' then I punsed thee, an' I'd do it agen fur—”
“Wait a minute,” said Anice, holding up her little gloved hand. “Who is Nib?”
“Nib's my dog,” surlily. “An' them as punses him, has getten to punse me.”
Anice bent down and patted the small animal.
“He seems a very nice dog,” she said. “What did you kick him for?”
Nib's master was somewhat mollified. A person who could appreciate the virtues of “th' best tarrier i' Riggan,” could not be regarded wholly with contempt, or even indifference.
“He kicked him fur nowt,” he answered. “He's allus at uther him or me. He bust my kite, an' he cribbed my marvels, didn't he?” appealing to the by-standers.
“Aye, he did. I seed him crib th' marvels mysen. He wur mad 'cos Jud wur winnen, and then he kicked Nib.”