A number of the workmen were looking on stolidly and whispering to one another as if interested in what we were going to do about the dog. Some were in the yard smoking, some on the stairs, and every man’s hands were deep in his pockets.
“Say,” shouted a voice as I carried the dog out into the yard, following Uncle Bob while the men made room for us, “they’re a goin’ to drown bull-poop.”
I hurried on after my uncle and heard a trampling of feet behind me, but I took no notice, only as I reached the dam there was quite a little crowd closing in.
“Wayert a minute, mester,” said one of the grinders. “I’ll get ’ee bit o’ iron and a bit o’ band to tie round poop’s neck.”
For answer, Uncle Bob took the dog by his collar and hind-legs, and kneeling down on the stone edge of the dam plunged him head-first into the water, drew him out, and plunged him in again twice.
“Yow can’t drownd him like that,” cried one.
“He’s dowsing on him to bring him round,” said another; and then, as Uncle Bob laid the dog down and stood up to watch him, there was a burst of laughter in the little crowd, for all our men were collected now.
“Yes, laugh away, you cowardly hounds,” said Uncle Bob indignantly, and I looked at him wonderingly, for he had always before seemed to be so quiet and good-tempered a fellow. “It’s a pity, I suppose, that you did not kill the dog right out the same as, but for a lucky accident, you might have poisoned this boy here.”
“Who poisoned lad?” said a grinder whom I had seen insolent more than once.
“I don’t know,” cried Uncle Bob; “but I know it was done by the man or men who stole those bands last night; and I know that it was done by someone in these works, and that you nearly all of you know who it was.”