"Come back, there!" yelled both keepers in excited unison, but they
called too late.
Each grabbed for the chain too late. Their heads and shoulders cannoned
and they fell together on the hot, dirty sand while Scamp and the
Arab made each other's intimate acquaintance in a whirl of ripping
cloth and legs and teeth and blasphemy.
That in itself was bad enough, and good enough excuse if such were
wanted for war between the Shadow of God Upon Earth and England's
distant Queen; but there was worse to follow.
One does not laugh, between certain parallels, unless the ultimate
degree of insult is intended. And Curley Crothers and Joe Byng did
laugh. They held their ribs and laughed until their muscles ached
and their strong men's strength oozed out of them.
They were laughing when they grabbed the dog at last and pulled him
off. They laughed as they set the Arab on his feet and gave him back
his gun; and they laughed at him with Christian and mannerly good
grace when he spat at them in awful frenzy until the spittle matted
in his beard.
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