"The dog ought to die, too!" cried a voice from the people.

Her brother's sorrowful attitude made Flea press Flukey's arm
soothingly.

"So he ought to die!" said another.

"He were hungry," explained Flukey, turning on Snatchet's accuser.
"Mister, if ye'll let my dorg live--"

Before he could finish the child had interrupted him. "That dog ought to
die for killing my Bess!"

Flea pushed past Flukey and stood before the little girl. "Kid, I don't
blame ye for cryin' for yer hen," she began; "but my brother ain't got
no dog but Snatchet, an' if ye'll let him live I'll give ye this bit of
gold I got for catchin' the pig."

A murmur followed her words, and the tears dried in the blue eyes
looking up at her.

"Here little 'un, chuck it in yer pocket," said Flea, straightening her
shoulders, "and it'll buy another hen."

So the jury which had sat for a moment upon the precious life of
Snatchet brought in a verdict of "not guilty," and the squatter children
turned to find something to eat for the quartet of empty stomachs. Out
of sight of Dryden, they sat down beside the road, and Flea looked the
pig over.