“There will not be any fun, Cob.”
“Oh, yes, there will, uncle,” I said. “I say, do let me come.”
He shook his head, and as I could make no impression on him I gave up, and slipped down to Uncle Jack, who was watching Mrs Stephenson cut some huge sandwiches for provender during the night.
“I say, uncle,” I whispered, “I know what you are going to do. Take me.”
“No, no,” he said. “It will be no work for boys.”
He was so quiet and stern that I felt it was of no use to press him, so I left the kitchen and went to the front door to try Uncle Bob for my last resource.
I opened the door gently, and started back, for there was a savage growl, and I just made out the dark form of a big-headed dog tugging at a string.
“Down, Piter!” said Uncle Bob. “Who is it? You, Cob? Here, Piter, make friends with him. Come out.”
I went out rather slowly, for the dog was growling ominously; but at a word from Uncle Bob he ceased, and began to smell me all round the legs, stopping longest about my calves, as if he thought that would be the best place for a bite.
“Pat him, Cob, and pull his ears.”