“A gentleman can perform any kind of menial labour without degrading himself,” Sir Walter said to Yeggie, and emphasised it by a bite on the ear.
As time went on, the hens became more and more of a passion with Sir Walter, and by the time the twins came he was sleeping out in a kennel by the hen-houses, and had a pet white chicken roosting on his back. Its name is Betsy, and it is not to be killed, but kept for him, as he is so fond of it.
Many of the Bonstones’ neighbours have hens stolen, but no one now ever braves the army of dogs at Green Hill.
One man tried it—a stranger who did not know about the dogs. He had tramped out from New York, and seeing the flock of Wyandottes on the farm as he passed by on the road, he decided it would be a good place to steal a few chickens. He lay hidden in some bushes till night, then he crept cautiously to the barn. Sir Walter met him, and growlingly escorted him to his kennel. The other dogs scented a stranger, and the unhappy tramp found himself confronted by Weary Winnie, Yeggie, the Frenchmen and Czarina. They did not bite him. Mr. Bonstone’s dogs, and ours too, are trained never to put their teeth in a man unless he is trying to kill them, or some human being. We can nose, and push, and knock over, and grip, if necessary, but not bite.
The poor tramp was in a dilemma, and finally he crawled into Sir Walter’s kennel, and covered himself with straw.
Cook was the first one up at the hen-houses in the morning. She wanted fresh eggs for breakfast.
Seeing Sir Walter watching the kennel door with a peculiar air, she went up and looked in, and screamed when she saw a man’s head in the straw.
Thomas and Joe came running from the barn, and ordered the man to come out.
“Sure and I can’t,” he said, “those gentlemanly dogs have peeled every stitch of clothing off me.”