"Yep."
"Do you understand that he killed my little girl's prize hen?"
"The dog ought to die, too!" cried a voice from the people.
Her brother's sorrowful attitude made Flea press Flukey's arm soothingly.
"So he ought to die!" said another.
"He were hungry," explained Flukey, turning on Snatchet's accuser. "Mister, if ye'll let my dorg live—"
Before he could finish the child had interrupted him. "That dog ought to die for killing my Bess!"
Flea pushed past Flukey and stood before the little girl. "Kid, I don't blame ye for cryin' for yer hen," she began; "but my brother ain't got no dog but Snatchet, an' if ye'll let him live I'll give ye this bit of gold I got for catchin' the pig."
A murmur followed her words, and the tears dried in the blue eyes looking up at her.
"Here little 'un, chuck it in yer pocket," said Flea, straightening her shoulders, "and it'll buy another hen."