"A common—stump-tailed—cur-dog—Marster!"
"A pair of them."
"A pair of 'em."
"No, the whole thing—all together—'we—are—a—pair.'"
"Yes—Marster." They repeated it in chorus.
"With apologies to the dogs"
"Apologies to the dogs"
"And why does your master honour the kennel with his presence to-day?"
"He hit a nigger on the head so hard that he strained the nigger's ankle, and he's restin' from his labours."
"That's right, Towser. If I had you and Tige a few hours every day I could make good squirrel-dogs out of you.
There was a pause. Phil looked up and smiled.
"What does it sound like?" asked the Captain, with a shade of doubt in his voice.
"Sounds to me like a Sunday-school teacher taking his class through a new catechism."
The Captain fumbled hurriedly for his keys.
"There's something wrong in there."
He opened the door and sprang in.
Ben Cameron was sitting on top of the two toughs, knocking their heads together as they repeated each chorus.
"Walk in, gentlemen. The show is going on now—the animals are doing beautifully," said Ben.
The Captain muttered an oath. Phil suddenly grasped him by the throat, hurled him against the wall, and snatched the keys from his hand.
