“Poaching, or he wouldn’t have begun to run.—I say,” he said aloud, “whose wood is this?”
“What’s that got to do with you?” cried the lad insolently. “’Tain’t yours. And just you lookye here, if I ketches you sneaking arter and watching me again, I’ll give you something as’ll make that other side o’ your face look swelled.”
Tom involuntarily raised his hand to a tender spot on his right cheek, left from his encounter with his cousin, and the lad grinned.
“No, not that side, t’other,” said the fellow. “Now then, just you hook it. You ’ain’t no business here.”
“As much business as you have,” said Tom stoutly, for the lad’s manner made his blood begin to flow more freely.
“No, you ’ain’t; you’re only a stranger, and just come.”
“Anybody must have a right to come through here so long as he isn’t poaching.”
The lad gave a sharp look round, and then turned menacingly to Tom, with his fist doubled, and thrust his face forward.
“Just you say as I’ve been poaching agen, and I’ll let you know.”
His manner was so menacing that the dog read war, and set up a few hairs on the back of his neck, and uttered a low snarl.