Cub took the trousers, and quickly turned the legs into a pair of bags by tying cords about the ankles. “Now bring on yer grist,” said he; “I’ll hold the sack open!”
“Plague on the dog!” said Tug. “He won’t le’ me tech it.”
“I can coax him. Here, poor fellow!” said Cub, patting him.
Lion did not greatly resent the patting, but the moment Cub’s hand reached for the basket, a deep growl warned him off.
“Kill the brute!” cried Peternot. “We can’t be bothered this way.”
“That’s easy enough, if you’ll pay damages,” said Dock.
“That I’ll do,—a miser’ble cur that stan’s in the way o’ my takin’ my own, on my own premises!”
“Kill him it is, then,” said Dock, looking for a club, and finding two. “Hank, you take this. Cub, you take your dirk-knife. Squire, lend Tug your cane, or use it yourself.”
“Now see here!” objected Hank. “This looks to me kind o’ mean,—half a dozen on us agin one dog! Hanged if I don’t like the looks o’ the pup, an’ I won’t have him killed.”
“What’ll ye do, then?”