A dog barked suddenly, then came at them with a low, running growl.
“Be quit of your nonsense, laddie,” said Donald. “I’ve been through worse fights than you can give.”
The dog smelt them round and about to learn more of these tattered strangers, then put his nose into the pedlar’s hand.
“His sort were always friendly to us,” laughed the girl—“but what of his master?”
“He’s here to answer for himself,” said Hardcastle of Logie, turning at his own door.
They saw a big, loose-built man, with a gun under his arm, and a brace of partridge in his left hand—a man, Donald judged, accustomed to live alone, resenting all intrusion.
“Come to heel, Roy,” snapped Hardcastle. “I’ve no use for a dog that makes easy love to strangers.”
Causleen’s pride took fire, and her glance met his with sharp hostility. “Dogs have clearer sight than their masters sometimes—and gentler breeding.”
“He’s getting old, and forgets that gentleness and breed are under the harrow these days. You’ve blundered into a hard country, and I tell you so.”
She turned from him with tired disdain. “Come away, father,” she said. “They are surly here in Yorkshire. He will not buy.”