The next instant a dreadful cry was smothered in the boy's grappled throat. They were leaning against the rail and holding Nib over the black abyss.
“Wilt ta promise?” he was asked. “Tha may let him speak, Lowrie; he canna mak' foak hear.”
Nib looked down into the blackness, and broke into a terrific whine, turning his head toward his master.
“I—I—conna promise,” said Jud; but he burst into tears.
“Let th' dog go,” said Lowrie.
“Try him again. Wilt ta promise, or mun we let th' dog go, lad? We're noan goin' to do th' chap ony great harm; we're on'y goin' to play him a trick to pay him back fur his cheek.”
Jud looked at Nib.
“Lowrie said you had vitriol and knob-sticks,” he faltered. “Yo' dunnat play tricks wi' them.”
“Yo' see how much he's heerd,” said Lowrie. “He'll noan promise.”
The one who held the dog was evidently losing patience.