Uncle Bob took the dog as before and plunged him once more in the cold clean water; and this time, as soon as he was out, he struggled slightly and choked and panted to get his breath.
“We must get him on his legs if we can,” said Uncle Bob; and for the next half hour he kept trying to make the dog stand, but without avail, till he had almost given up in despair. Then all at once poor Piter began to whine, struggled to his feet, fell down, struggled up again, and then began rapidly to recover, and at last followed us into the office—where, forgetful of breakfast, we began to discuss the present state of the war.
The first thing that caught my eye as we went in was a letter stuck in the crack of the desk, so that it was impossible for anyone to pass without seeing it.
Uncle Jack took the letter, read it, and passed it round, Uncle Bob reading last.
I asked what it was as I stooped over poor Piter, who seemed stupid and confused and shivered with the wet and cold.
“Shall I tell him?” said Uncle Bob, looking at his brothers.
They looked at one another thoughtfully, nodded, and Uncle Bob handed me the note; and a precious composition it was.
“You London Cockneys,” it began, “you’ve had plenty warnings ’bout your gimcracks and contrapshions, and wouldn’t take ’em. Now look here, we won’t hev ’em in Arrowfield, robbing hard-workin’ men of toil of their hard earns and takin’ bread out o’ wife and childers mouths and starvin’ families, so look out. If you three an’ that sorcy boy don’t pack up your traps and be off, we’ll come and pack ’em up for you. So now you know.”
“What does this mean?” I said, looking from one to the other.
“It means war, my lad,” said Uncle Dick fiercely.