“Well, not with a hammer, of course. Doing what a butcher does—cutting them up in joints, you’d call it. Come along.”
He led the way into the hall, seized his cap, and went on across the old castle court, stopping to throw a stone at a jackdaw, perched upon one of the old towers.
“He’s listening for Donald. That’s his place where he practises. I daresay he’s up there now, only we can’t stop to see.”
Outside the old castle they were saluted by a trio of yelps and barks, the three dogs, after bounding about their master, smelling Max’s legs suspiciously, Sneeshing, of the short and crooked legs, pretending that he had never seen a pair of trousers before, and taking hold of the material to test its quality, to Max’s horror and dismay.
“Oh, he won’t bite!” cried Kenneth; “it’s only his way.”
“But even a scratch from a dog’s tooth might produce hydrophobia,” said Max nervously.
“Not with Scotch dogs,” said Kenneth, laughing. “Here, Sneeshing, you wouldn’t give anybody hydro-what-you-may-call-it, would you, old man, eh?”
He seized the rough little terrier as he spoke, and turned him over on his back, caught him by the throat and shook him, the dog retaliating by growling, snarling, and pretending to worry his master’s hand.
This piece of business excited Dirk the collie, who shook out his huge frill, gave his tail a flourish, and made a plunge at the prostrate dog, whom he seized by a hind leg, to have Bruce’s teeth fixed directly in his great rough hide, when Kenneth rose up laughing.
“Worry, worry!” he shouted; and there was a regular canine scuffle, all bark and growl and suppressed whine.