“Keep quiet, I’m telling you,” said he, “or I’ll throttle you, I will so. Faith, it seems like a little boy by the feel of it!”
“A little boy!” said the sergeant.
“Yes, he doesn’t reach up to my waist.”
“It must be the young brat from the cottage that set the dogs on us, the one that loves beasts. Now then, boy, what do you mean by this kind of thing? You’ll find yourself in gaol for this, my young buck-o. Who was with you, eh? Tell me that now?” and the sergeant bent forward.
“Hold up your head, sonny, and talk to the sergeant,” said Shawn. “Oh!” he roared, and suddenly he made a little rush forward. “I’ve got him,” he gasped; “he nearly got away. It isn’t a boy at all, sergeant; there’s whiskers on it!”
“What do you say?” said the sergeant.
“I put my hand under its chin and there’s whiskers on it. I nearly let him out with the surprise, I did so.”
“Try again,” said the sergeant in a low voice; “you are making a mistake.”
“I don’t like touching them,” said Shawn. “It’s a soft whisker like a billy-goat’s. Maybe you’d try yourself, sergeant, for I tell you I’m frightened of it.”
“Hold him over here,” said the sergeant, “and keep a good grip of him.”