Down came their masters, knives in hand.
Curdie drew himself up fearlessly, mattock on shoulder, and awaited their coming, while at his heel his awful attendant showed not only her outside fringe of icicle teeth, but a double row of right serviceable fangs she wore inside her mouth, and her green eyes flashed yellow as gold.

The butchers, not liking the look of either of them or of the dogs at their feet, drew back, and began to remonstrate in the manner of outraged men.
'Stranger,' said the first, 'that bulldog is mine.' 'Take him, then,' said Curdie, indignant.
'You've killed him!' 'Yes--else he would have killed me.' 'That's no business of mine.' 'No ?' 'No.' 'That makes it the more mine, then.' 'This sort of thing won't do, you know,' said the other butcher.
'That's true,' said Curdie.

'That's my mastiff,' said the butcher.
'And as he ought to be,' said Curdie.
'Your brute shall be burned alive for it,' said the butcher.
'Not yet,' answered Curdie.

'We have done no wrong.

We were walking quietly up your street when your dogs flew at us.