“Here they are,” he exclaimed; “I paid eighty-nine thousand dollars to get them, and they’re worth—that,” he flung them with a quick gesture into the air, and the rising wind scattered them fluttering over the sere grass. “Scrabble for them in the dirt.”
“You c’n throw them away now the railroad’s left you.”
“And before,” Gordon Makimmon demanded, “do you think I couldn’t have gutted you if I’d had a mind to? do you think anybody couldn’t gut you? Why, you’ve been the mutton of every little storekeeper that let you off with a pound of coffee, of any note shaver that could write. The Bugle says I let out money to cover up the railway deal, but that’d be no better than giving it to stop the sight of the blind. God A’mighty! this transportation business you’re only whining about now was laid out five years ago, the company’s agents have driven in and out twenty times....”
“Let him have it!”
“Spite yourselves!” Gordon Makimmon cried; “it’s all that’s left for you.”
General Jackson moved forward over the porch. He growled in response to the menace of the throng on the sod, and jumped down to their level. A sudden, dangerous murmur rose:
“The two hundred dollar dog! The joke on Greenstream!”
He walked alertly forward, his ears pricked up on his long skull.
“C’m here, General,” Gordon called, suddenly urgent; “c’m back here.”
The dog hesitated, turned toward his master, when a heavy stick, whirling out of the press of men, struck the animal across the upper forelegs. He fell forward, with a sharp whine, and attempted vainly to rise. Both legs were broken. He looked back again at Gordon, and then, growling, strove to reach their assailants.