"My dog repeats, he coursed the hare well, and has a right to her."
"What do you mean by saying he has a right to her, when I tell you the hare belongs to me?"
"And my dog says the reverse."
"Go to Dijon with your dog!" I exclaimed, "I tell you the hare is mine."
"My dog never told a lie," rejoined the braconnier, and he dipped the remnant of his turnip for the twentieth time in the salt. "Never."
"Then I am the liar," said I, beginning to feel hot, "I am the liar, ah! am I? By Jupiter! your dog, you bearded fool—your cur of a dog? I do not care a sous for his carcass any more than I do for yours. I'll have my hare."
"Don't get excited, young man—don't be savage, I beg of you; for, as sure as I am a sinner, you'll have a crop of pimples on your nose to-morrow,—and red pimples on the nose are not pretty."
"Keep your jokes to yourself, old man, or on my honour you shall repent it!"
"Ha! ha! ha!" grinned the Père Séguin, "Ha! ha! ha! capital turnip."