“Yes, yes, yes,” he cried half angrily. “Now are you satisfied? Come and let’s have a look at the dog.”
I felt quite guilty at having forgotten poor Piter so long, and descending with my uncle we were soon kneeling by the kennel.
He had not stirred since I put him in, but lay snoring heavily, and no amount of shaking seemed to have the least effect.
“The poor brute has had a strong dose, Cob,” said Uncle Bob, “and if we don’t do something he will never wake again.”
“Oh, uncle!” I cried, for his words sent a pang through me. I did not know how much I had grown to like the faithful piece of ugliness till my uncle had spoken as he did.
“Yes, the wretches have almost done for him, and I’m glad of it.”
“Glad!” I cried as I lifted poor Piter’s head in my hand and stroked it.
“Glad it was that which made the poor brute silent. I thought he had turned useless through his not giving the alarm.”
“Can’t we do something, uncle?” I cried.
“I’m thinking, Cob,” he replied, “it’s not an easy thing to give dogs antidotes, and besides we don’t know what he has taken. Must be some narcotic though. I know what we’ll do. Here, carry him down to the dam.”