“Take that dog up,” Fergus commanded, “and hug it and kiss it, and if I find a single shiver left in the beast I’ll break your head.”
The man bent to the hound, but it snapped a piece out of his hand, and nearly bit his nose off as well.
“That dog doesn’t like me,” said the man.
“Nor do I,” roared Fergus; “get out of my sight.”
The man went away and Fergus was left alone with the hound, but the poor creature was so terrified that it began to tremble ten times worse than before.
“Its legs will drop off,” said Fergus. “Fionn will blame me,” he cried in despair.
He walked to the hound.
“If you snap at my nose, or if you put as much as the start of a tooth into the beginning of a finger!” he growled.
He picked up the dog, but it did not snap, it only trembled. He held it gingerly for a few moments.
“If it has to be hugged,” he said, “I’ll hug it. I’d do more than that for Fionn.”