“He would. He was chasing her with that intention.”
“It was only in sport.”
“I suppose he was frothing at the mouth only in sport,” said Tom. “The dog was probably mad. You ought to thank me for killing him. He might have bitten you.”
“That don’t go down,” said the other coarsely. “It’s much too thin.”
“It’s true,” said Mary Somers, speaking for the first time.
“Of course you’ll stand up for your sweetheart,” said the butcher boy (for this was his business), “but that’s neither here nor there. I paid five dollars for that dog, and if he don’t pay me what I gave, I’ll beat him.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” said Tom quietly. “A dog like that ought to be killed, and no one has any right to let him run loose, risking the lives of people. The next time you get five dollars you’d better invest it better.”
“Then you won’t pay me the money?” exclaimed the other, in a passion. “I’ll break your head.”
“Come on then,” said Tom. “I’ve got something to say about that,” and he squared off scientifically.
“Oh, don’t fight with him, Mr. Temple—Tom,” said Mary Somers, much distressed. “He’s much stronger than you.”