By this time the men had got out of the wood, and pursued their road, but not with tranquil hearts. Sunday ended with the noise of that coward's gun. They walked on hastily, guns ready, fingers on trigger—at war. Suddenly Robinson looked back, and stopped and drew George's attention to Carlo. He was standing with all his four legs wide apart, like a statue.
George called him; he came directly, and was for licking George's hand, but George pulled him about and examined him all over.
“I wish they may not have hurt him after all, the butchers; they have, too. See here, Tom, here is one streak of blood on his belly, nothing to hurt, though, I do hope. Never mind, Carlo,” cried George, “it is only a single shot by what I can see, 'tisn't like when Will put the whole charge into you, rabbit-shooting, is it, Carlo? No, says he; we don't care for this, do we, Carlo?” cried George, rather boisterously.
“Make him go into that pool, there,” said Robinson; “then he won't have fever.”
“I will; here—cess! cess!” He threw a stone into the pool of water that lay a little off the road, and Carlo went in after it without hesitation, though not with his usual alacrity. After an unsuccessful attempt to recover the stone he swam out lower down, and came back to the men and wagged his tail slowly, and walked behind George.
They went on.
“Tom,” said George, after a pause, “I don't like it.”
“Don't like what?”
“He never so much as shook himself.”
“What of that? He did shake himself, I should say.”