“Who killed that dog? Who killed it?” he demanded threateningly, drawing himself to his full height and glaring at the boys menacingly.
For a tense moment all were silent.
“I killed the dog,” said Frank, then.
“What’s that? You killed my dog?” and the man made as if to leap on Frank to throttle him.
“Hold off, there,” Frank’s voice was piercing in its deadly quiet. “Don’t come too close to me. Listen to what I’ve got to say.”
“Well, what’ve you got to say, you——”
“And don’t say that, either,” said Frank. “Just keep cool a minute. Some one else in the world can be just as right as you are. That dog was shot just as it was making a wild leap at one of these girls. See the foam all over its head? The dog was mad, and I killed it before it could hurt one of these girls.”
By this time the other two men had come up to where the crowd was standing, one of them being close to Frank.
Frank saw this and stepped farther away, thus putting the distance, several yards, between himself and anyone else.
“That dog was not mad—that dog was worth two hundred dollars, and you’ve got to pay for it!” yelled the man, anger breaking out in every tone, every movement.