"The Squire says he shall cause this way through the fields to be closed."
"Who says it?" asked George, with marked emphasis—and the sound grated on Cris Chattaway's ear.
"The Squire says so," he roared. "Are you deaf?"
"Ah," said George. "But Mr. Chattaway can't close it. My father says he has not the power to do so."
"Your father!" contemptuously rejoined Cris Chattaway. "He would like his leave asked, perhaps. When the Squire says he shall do a thing, he means it."
"At any rate, it is not done yet," was the significant answer. "Don't boast, Cris."
Cris had been making off, and was some distance up the field. He turned to address George.
"You know, you beggar, that if I don't go in and polish you off it's because I can't condescend to tarnish my hands. When I fight, I like to fight with gentlefolk." And with that he turned tail, and decamped quicker than before.
"Just so," shrieked George. "Especially if they wear petticoats."
A sly shower of earth came back in answer. But it happened, every bit of it, to steer clear of him, and George kept his seat and his equanimity.