Jud bent down to pat Nib himself, not without a touch of pride in his manifold injuries, and the readiness with which they were attested.
“Aye,” he said, “an' I did na set on him at first neyther. I nivver set on him till he punsed Nib. He may bust my kite, an' steal my marvels, an' he may ca' me ill names, but he shanna kick Nib. So theer!”
It was evident that Nib's enemy was the transgressor. He was grievously in the minority. Nobody seemed to side with him, and everybody seemed ready—when once the tongues were loosed—to say a word for Jud and “th' best tarrier i'Riggan.” For a few minutes Anice could scarcely make herself heard.
“You are a good boy to take care of your dog,” she said to Jud—“and though fighting is not a good thing, perhaps if I had been a boy,” gravely deciding against moral suasion in one rapid glance at the enemy—“perhaps if I had been a boy, I would have fought myself. You are a coward,” she added, with incisive scorn to the other lad, who slinked sulkily out of sight.
“Owd Sammy Craddock,” lounging at his window, clay pipe in hand, watched Anice as she walked away, and gave vent to his feelings in a shrewd chuckle.
“Eh! eh!” he commented; “so that's th' owd parson's lass, is it? Wall, hoo may be o' th' same mate, but hoo is na o' th' same grain, I'll warrant. Hoo's a rare un, hoo is, fur a wench.”
“Owd Sammy's” amused chuckles, and exclamations of “Eh! hoo's a rare un—that hoo is—fur a wench,” at last drew his wife's attention. The good woman pounced upon him sharply.
“Tha'rt an owd yommer-head,” she said. “What art tha ramblin' about now? Who is it as is siccan a rare un?”
Owd Sammy burst into a fresh chuckle, rubbing his knees with both hands.
“Why,” said he, “I'll warrant tha could na guess i' tha tried, but I'll gi'e thee a try. Who dost tha think wur out i' th' street just now i' th' thick of a foight among th' lads? I know thou'st nivver guess.”