"No; but I am pining to administer one; that will warm me."
"Indeed!—Well, I don't choose to receive one.—Look you, dear boy, it is hunger that embitters our dispositions and makes us quarrelsome. The proverb is very true: when there's no hay in the manger, the donkeys fight."
"So you liken us to donkeys, eh?"
"Plumard, that proverb was made for men as well as for beasts.—Speaking of beasts, cast your eye on that little dog running along yonder; how clean and plump he is!"
"Are you inclined to eat that dog, I should like to know?"
"I' faith! in default of other viands, it might not be so bad. You, who had an idea of going for a soldier, ought to know that in a town beleaguered and besieged by the enemy they eat everything: dogs, cats, rats!—Indeed, an old archer told me that one time, when he was in a besieged place, he ate birds that had been stuffed and kept under glass several years."
"They must have made a sorry feast.—But the dog has stopped; if we could induce him to follow us, even if we had to use a little force, we could sell him to a dog fancier and get the wherewithal to gnaw a crust."
"You are right—come; let us act as if we did not see him. I will go ahead, you stay behind, and we will surround the cur."
The two clerks quickened their pace, walking in the direction of the dog they coveted, which had stopped to sniff a multitude of things. Bahuchet was very near him, and was trying to coax him by talking to him in an endearing tone; but just as he was about to put his hand on the animal's collar, a heavy, callous hand roughly pushed his away, and a hoarse voice exclaimed:
"Don't touch my dog, little jackanapes! He hasn't done anything to you—why do you put your hand on him?"