On such an afternoon, as Jack was giving his friends a brief sketch of the sun and its satellites, and of the wonders of the telescope, they heard bursts of applause by many voices, and a low, deep growling of dogs.
"It is a dog fight," one of the lads exclaimed.
"It is a brutal sport," Jack said. "Let us go another way."
One of the young fellows had, however, climbed a gate to see what was going on beyond the hedge.
"Jack," he exclaimed, "there is Bill Haden fighting his old bitch Flora against Tom Walker's Jess, and I think the pup is a-killing the old dorg."
With a bound Jack Simpson sprang into the field, where some twenty or thirty men were standing looking at a dog fight. One dog had got the other down and was evidently killing it.
"Throw up the sponge, Bill," the miners shouted. "The old dorg's no good agin the purp."
Jack dashed into the ring, with a kick he sent the young dog flying across the ring, and picked up Flora, who, game to the last, struggled to get at her foe.
A burst of indignation and anger broke from the men.