"He's bin reading some poetry of yours, Bertie," continued his sister, "and he's justabout dreadful, all his clöathes tore about, and a nasty mess of blood and yaller stuff on his face."
Albert suddenly began to look uneasy.
"Oh Lard! perhaps I'd better bolt fur it.—No, I'll square him out. You'll stand by me, Tilly?"
"Yes, but döan't mäake him angry—he might beat you."
Bertie's pride was wounded by this suggestion, which was, however, soundly based on precedent, and he entered the kitchen with something very like a swagger.
Reuben was standing by the table, erect, and somehow dignified in spite of the mess he was in.
"Well," he said slowly, "well—MacKinnon's hound!"
Albert saw the heap of scribbled paper on the table, and blenched.
Reuben walked up to him, took him by the shoulders, and shook him as a dog might shake a rabbit.
"You hemmed, scummy, lousy Radical!"