"Slip down to de fence and got de gun; dat's a good boy!"
"Gracious!" gasped the youth; "it am right dar by de dog."
"He won't notice you; run behind him and be quick 'bout it, or he'll chaw us bofe to def."
"He'll chaw me suah if I goes near him," was the reply of Rube, who felt little ardor for the task his relative urged upon him.
"Ain't it better dat one ob us should go dead, dan bofe should be obstinguished?" asked the uncle reproachfully.
"Dat 'pends which am de one to go dead; if it am me, it am better for you, but I don't see whar I'm to come in; 'spose you see wheder you can got de gun—"
"Dar he comes!" whispered Uncle Pete.
Sure enough the cur, having twisted his body between the rails, began trotting toward the couple that were watching him with such interest.
There was good reason for fear, since the canine was afflicted with the rabies in the worst form. He showed no froth at the jaws, for animals thus affected do not, but his eyes were fiery, his mouth dry, the consuming fever burning up all moisture. He moaned as if in pain, his torture causing him to snap at everything in reach. He had bitten shrubbery, branches, wood and other objects, and now made for the persons with the purpose of using his teeth on them.
"Rube," said his uncle, "stand right whar you am! No use ob runnin', for he'll cotch you; when he gets nigh 'nough bang him wid your hoe; if dat don't fotch him, I'll gib him anoder whack and dat'll finish him suah."