“The impudent scoundrel!” cried Uncle Richard. “Go and tell that fellow that—”
But he got no further, for, taking all this as an insult meant for his uncle, Tom had darted off for the gate, which he threw open, and found himself face to face with a big, shambling, hobbledehoy sort of fellow of about eighteen or nineteen, who stepped back for a yard or two, swinging a heavy stick to and fro, while a mangy-looking cur, with one eye and a very thin tail like a greyhound’s, kept close at his heels.
“What is it?” said Tom hotly. “Did you knock at the gate like that?”
“What’s it got to do with you?” said the lad, insolently. “Get in, or I’ll set the dog at yer.”
Tom glanced at the dog and then at its master, and felt as he often had when his cousin Sam had been more than usually vicious.
“I’ll jolly soon let yer know if yer give me any o’ your mouth. Here, Badger, smell him, boy—ciss—smell him!”
The cur showed his teeth, and uttered a low snarling growl, as its master advanced urging him on; while Tom drew one leg a little back ready to deliver a kick, but otherwise stood his ground, feeling the while that everything was not going to be peaceful even in that lovely village.
But before hostilities could begin, and just as the dog and his master were within a yard, the gate was suddenly snatched open, and Uncle Richard appeared, when the lout turned sharply and ran off along the lane, followed by his dog, the fellow shouting “Yah! yah! yah!” his companion’s snapping bark sounding like an imitation.
“Come in, Tom,” said Uncle Richard. “I don’t want you to get into rows with Master Pete Warboys. Insolent young rascal!”
Tom looked at his uncle inquiringly.