“Not much, they ain’t,” said Zeb, sturdily. “Bob, come here. There now, I’m ready again.”
“Ready for what, my young friend?” asked the stranger, for he could not but see the difference between Zeb and the other two, for all his bloody nose and disordered apparel. “You don’t mean to fight any more?”
“Don’t I?” exclaimed Zeb. “I mean to drive home Dr. Dryer’s cows if I fight all day.”
“Dr. Dryer’s cows? Dr. Dryer, of the Ogleport Academy?” asked the stranger.
“Yes, Solomon,” said Zeb. “That’s the man. Those are his cows down the road there. Got away last night. I came after ’em and found these Rodney rascals driving ’em to the pound. Of course they can’t have ’em.”
“Of course not!” exclaimed the stranger. “You’re perfectly right, my young friend. If that’s your horse yonder, just mount him and we’ll see if there’ll be any more trouble.”
The three vagabonds, for the smaller one had now come running up, took a good look at the stranger, another at the pugnacious attitude of Zeb, another at Bob, who was evidently getting dangerously impatient.
They looked with one accord at what was left of their big, yellow dog, now limping and yelping up the road, and then, with many a threat and whine and morsel of smothered abuse, they slowly sneaked away after their dog.
Zeb was on the bay colt’s back quickly enough, and the dun heifer and her friends moved cheerfully on before him in the direction of Ogleport.