"Shoot him!" growled Reuben, looking round to the bailiff, who had followed me. "Shoot my dog?"
"He's not your dog, Reuben," I said. "He's father's, although you have had him for your own so long. And father will have a voice in the matter before he's shot. Don't be afraid. He sha'n't be shot. We can nurse him when he needs nursing, and he shall die peaceably like a human being. He deserves as much any day, I'm sure. He has worked as well."
Taff was my special dog, and it was true that Luck had always, as it were, belonged to Reuben, but now that I fancied him in danger, all my latent love of the weak and injured rose up strong within me, and I fought for the post of Luck's champion. Perhaps my mood of unreasonable temper had just a little to do with it too.
"You are mistaken," said Trayton, coldly. "The poor beast is ill and weary. It would be a far greater kindness to shoot him."
"Well, he sha'n't be shot, then, so there's an end," cried I, testily, rising to my feet and looking Harrod in the face.
"Oh, very good; of course it's not my business," said he.
He turned away up the slope. But the spirit of annoyance was in Reuben as it was in me that day.
"I came to have a bit of a look at the 'op-fields, master," said he. "The sky don't look just as we might choose, do it?"
"This rain is not enough to hurt," growled Harrod, without looking round.