And now his grandma wished him to shoot this intimate, dear, beautiful friend!
No wonder that Tim’s courage failed.
“I have invited the General to a venison dinner day after to-morrow,” said Granny Luke; “and Primrose must be shot. I shall roast his saddle.”
Poor Tim shuddered. Granny Luke’s sensibilities had been blunted by time, and hard work and poverty. She had been doing very well in her affairs—thanks to the friendship of the General Superintendent of the mines, an old-country friend of her’s; and as he appreciated her excellent cooking, and fresh vegetables, she occasionally gave him and his fellow officers a good dinner. Primrose was to be offered up to two passions—revenge and avarice—for as he ate her spinach, he must therefore be eaten.
The group was standing outside the cabin door, Tim leaning irresolutely on his gun; Granny Luke, her arms akimbo, looking at him; and Primrose, as beautiful as only a fawn can be, was calmly nibbling the lower branches of a tree. Animals are better off than we are; they never suffer from anxiety. So Primrose had no possible idea that those branches might be the last which he would ever munch. He looked up at Mrs. Luke and her grandson and gave a friendly “neigh!”
This upset Tim, and he burst out a-crying: “I can’t shoot him! Granny—and I won’t!”
There came round the corner of the house a slow, massive tread. It was Yorkshire Tom, with his pick-axe on his shoulder.
“What’s all this! what’s all this!” said the man, catching Mrs. Luke’s arm as it was descending on Tim’s back.
“The boy is disobedient, and refuses to shoot Primrose,” said the stern old woman.
Yorkshire Tom was a patient man, and he staid a half hour to listen to the ins and outs of this curious case. He liked Tim and had felt his heart warm many a time as the little pale fellow, with the candle in his cap, came creeping through the dark alleys bringing him a dinner, and staying to chat awhile of the bright upper earth.