"If I do you can't stand up. You're drunk and a fool."
"Who saysh I'm drun'? Drun', am I?"
With a lunging jerk of his body he tore free and staggered backward, swearing, and then from the kennel where two glowing spots had been, came a gray streak, a ragged growl, a flash of bared teeth, white as frost.
Taylor leaped forward to grasp the boy, but again he twisted out of his reach. The dog left the ground in a long leap. John saw the red of its open mouth, caught the wicked glitter of the eye, and his foot shot out, hard and true, toe landing on the jaw, turning the creature up and over, flinging it hard upon the ground on its back.
"Get out of the way!" he said, and this time fastened his fingers in Lucius' sweater, jerking him toward the car, and stepped back himself as the dog came through the air, straight at his own throat, and reached the end of the chain, and went back and down with a choking roar of dismay.
Taylor turned to confront Lucius who had settled down on the running board, hot words on his lips and anger in his face. But he did not let the oath slip out, for a girl stood before him, a bare-headed girl in a red mackinaw, red in her cheeks, a flash in her eyes.
"That was uncalled for," she said evenly.
There was no anger in her voice; that was steady and cool and of splendid quality, but there was anger in her eyes. Another thing was there; an impersonal superiority. She gave Taylor the impression of an individual of consequence being annoyed by something trivial.
"I'm sorry I had to kick your dog," John said, "but the Providence that looks after fools and drunkards seemed to have turned its back. He got in your dog's way."
