"I'd like to hear him," the man blustered. "I'd just like to hear one peep out of him;—that's all."
She saw his coarse, hairy hand go to his hip pocket. She smiled bitterly. She knew the confidence he felt when he touched the mother-of-pearl handle of his pistol.
"You don't need that on him," she said. "He just sits there and don't never move. He don't hardly eat when you feeds him. He don't seem to have no heart left for nothing. He ain't like the terrier what had the distemper;—he ain't like the greyhound what had the hydrophobia,—so awful bad."
"What d'you mean?" The man muttered angrily. "Ain't they had the hydrophobia;—ain't they had the distemper;—ain't they?"
"You says they did, James."
"Ain't I the one to know? If I ain't been born with dog-sense, would folks be giving me their muts to care for?"
"You shot them pups, James."
"And what if I did?" He stormed. "They was dangerous—they was a menace to the community,—so they was. And see, here,—you take it from me, there ain't nothing more dangerous as a dog when he gets took that there way. Why, I've heard tell of dogs what have torn men limb from limb." And then he added in afterthought: "Men that've been kind to 'em, too."
Her laughter rang out shrilly, piercingly.
"Aw, James," she giggled hysterically. "Aw, now, James—