“But why shouldn’t a Peculiar break his leg?”
“That’s not my affair. He don’t. I’ve got Peculiars all over my beat, and never have I known one to break a leg. A broken heart, now——!”
“But if he did break a leg?” persisted Miss Gentry.
“If any one could break a leg, it would be me!” he said crossly.
“Well, then what would you do—if you broke your leg?”
Bundock was worn out. “What’s the good of meeting troubles half-way?” he snapped, turning on his heel.
“Yours seem to have come more than half-way,” scoffed Miss Gentry.
Bundock clapped his hand to the mud-patch, stung in his tenderest part. He wheeled round prestissimo, raging with repartee. But the door had closed—too late! Solitary, the sable Squibs dominated the doorstep—like a sardonic spirit.
Bundock was turning away angrily, though now fearlessly, when with a sudden thought he caught up the cat and plucked out one of her hairs. It was not revenge—it was merely that his youngest daughter had a sty, for which he believed the black hair an infallible remedy.