“Don't think your friend can sit in, though,” observed Champer-down, grinning broadly.
Anthony turned. The donkey had followed him in, and was standing just behind his chair, head hanging, ears lopping, lethargic patience showing in every contour of his shaggy body.
“I have consorted with many of his kind,” said Anthony, smiling, “and I prefer his frank sincerity, his bravery under stress, his worldly poise, his calm exterior, which does conceal the fiery depths of his nature; in fact, all his so-called animal attributes I prefer, to the more sophisticated allure of his human gender.” Anthony laid a strong hand on the little beast's shoulder, while the French woman regarded him curiously out of long black eyes.
“There, take that, you good for nothing cur,” and a man kicked a dog in through the door, to lie in a twisted, bloody heap upon the floor.
“What do you mean, you brute!” called Anthony, springing upon the miner, who immediately closed with him. Mignon screamed, and ran to stop them.
“Monsieur, for why you do—?”
“Aw, he got licked. I lost money on him.”
“Yes, and you haven't paid me, neither. You shell out, you Buckeye Pete!” spoke up a tall Kentuckian, with a mastiff on a leash.
“It wasn't a fair fight, Spotty Collins,” whined Buckeye.
“It was—it was, so!” called a chorus of voices.