"
"Bob Kelley, you go out an' bring that dog into court."
The rural policeman went out, and came back with the hound, who looked
eagerly up from one face to the other, then, seeing Davy, came to him
and stood against him, still looking around with that expression of
melancholy on his face that a hound dog always wears except when he's in
action.
"Bring the dog here, son!" commanded Mr. Kirby. He examined the raw
place on the neck. "Any of you gentlemen care to take a look?" he asked.
"It was worse than that," declared Davy, "till I rubbed vase-leen on
it."
Old Man Thornycroft pushed forward, face quivering. "What's all this got
to do with the boy stealin' the dog?" he demanded. "That's what I want
to know--what's it got to do?"
"Mr. Thornycroft," said Kirby, "at nine o'clock this mornin' this place
ceased to be Tom Belcher's sto', an' become a court of justice. Some
things are seemly in a court, some not. You stand back there!"
The old man stepped back to the counter, and stood julling his chin, his
eyes running over the crowd of faces.
"Davy Allen," spoke Mr. Kirby, "you stand back there with your ma. Tom
Belcher make way for him. And, Tom, s'pose you put another stick of wood
in that stove an' poke up the fire." He took off his glasses, blew on
them, polished them with his handkerchief and readjusted them. Then,
leaning back in his chair, he spoke.
"Gentlemen, from the beginnin' of time, as fur back as records go, a
dog's been the friend, companion, an' protector of man.
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