"He'll kill my Queen Bess! Father--Oh! Father!"

Flukey's voice, calling to his dog, rose high above the clamor. Suddenly
the little hen turned tail and flew across over the soft earth, uttering
frightened cackles; but her flight was slow compared to Snatchet's. He
came scurrying behind her, snapping a tail feather loose with each
onward bound, utterly oblivious of the two strong voices calling his
name.

The little hen wove a precarious path through coops of chattering
chickens, and Snatchet, bent upon his prey, added to the din. He had no
way of knowing the twists and turns to be taken by his small brown
victim, and it was only by making sharp corners that Queen Bess kept
clear of the snapping teeth. Men were running to and fro for something
to beat off the yellow invader. The girl's voice had settled to a cry,
and, just as Flukey, panting and tired, reached the dog, Snatchet
snapped up the hen, shook her fiercely, and settled down to his meal. In
an instant Flukey had dragged the beating body from his teeth, kicked
him soundly with his bare foot, and held out the dead hen to a man whose
face was darkened by anger. The young mistress of the feathered queen
was clinging, sobbing, to his hand.

"Is that your dog?" Flea heard the man ask, pointing to Snatchet under
the squatter boy's arm.

"Yep."

"Do you understand that he killed my little girl's prize hen?"