“Well, he have, and he haven’t, sir. Breeches was a bit too tough for him, but he has nipped me finely. Wonderful power in his jaw. No, no, Master George, don’t you touch him; he’ll have to go in the copper first. Ah, would you! Why, he’s like a fish, only he arn’t hooked.”
For the boy had made a dash for liberty, and it was only after a severe struggle that he was held down, and this time I was the sufferer; for, as I helped to keep him from springing overboard, he swung his head round and fixed his teeth in my left arm in a pinch that seemed to be scooping out a circular piece of flesh.
“Well, he is a warmint, and no mistake. Let go, will you, sir?”
“Don’t strike the boy,” said my father. “Let me get hold of his jaw.”
The boy saw the hand coming and wrenched himself away, seeming to take a piece of my arm with him, and leaving me throbbing with agonising pain, and feeling as if I must yell out and sob and cry.
“Well done, George!” said my father, pressing my shoulder in a firm grip. “That’s brave; always try and bear pain like a man.”
“But it hurts horribly,” I said, with my eyes full of tears.
“I know it does, my lad, but noise will not ease the pang.—Now, Morgan, you had better fetch another rope and bind him well.”
“S’pose I had, sir. I’d take hold of him and carry him ashore, but he’d have his teeth into me directly. S’pose people don’t go mad after being bit by boys? On’y feel mad, eh, Master George?”
I nodded, for I could not trust myself to speak, and I stood looking on as the boy was held back in the bottom of the boat, with my father’s foot upon his breast.