“Do you intend to go up for honours?” went on Richardson.
“’Twould be a signal failure if I did. I leave all that to Ludlow—as I said by the letters. See to the dogs, Richardson.”
The animals had struck up a fight. Richardson secured the one and sent the other out with a kick. Our scout was coming in, and the dog flew at him. No damage; but a great row.
“Charley,” cried Tod, “this butter’s not fit to eat.”
“Is it not, sir? What’s the matter with it?”
“The matter with it?—everything’s the matter with it.”
“Is that your scout?” asked Richardson, when the man had gone again, holding his dog between his knees as he sat.
“Yes,” said Tod. “And your dogs all but made mincemeat of him. You should teach them better manners.”
“Serve him right if they had. His name’s Tasson.”
“Tasson, is it? We call him Charley here.”