And he laughed again, a laugh that seemed to Dyke to be calling him a fool.
Dyke was a shrewd, sarcastic dog in his way, but he had no chance with me.
What on airth are you doin' there in the dyke, little missy?
That is the very infirm legend that is told and sold at the Dyke.
Mrs. Dyke was a practical woman and talked in a practical way.
“Well, they would be some good then,” said Dyke, a little more amiably.
“No,” said Dyke, raising his brown face from where he rested it upon his arm.
Joe Emson shouted once more, but Dyke would not turn his head.
Dyke muttered something about hating the old ostrich, but did not stir.
But before he had gone a dozen yards Dyke had sprung up and overtaken him.