“Yes, it is. It was your dog that tore my coat.”
“Carlo wouldn't have torn it, if you hadn't attacked him.”
“He attacked me first.”
“You had better go away, Mr. Holden, or he may go at you again.”
A low growl from the dog whom he held by the collar re-enforced this suggestion, and Abner, uttering threats both against the dog and his master, strode out of the cabin and bent his steps homeward.
As he entered the kitchen, the housekeeper turned, and, noticing his torn coat, exclaimed, “Good gracious, Mr. Holden, what's happened to you? How came your coat so badly torn?”
“It was a dog,” muttered Abner, who did not care to be questioned.
Mrs. Bickford supposed he must have taken off the coat, and the dog had torn it as it lay upon the ground.
“What a pity!” she exclaimed. “Whose dog was it?”
“Alfred Martin's. I'll make Martin pay for the coat. He has no right to keep such a brute.”