“Besides,” said Uncle Bob, “this is to be his home.”
I stooped down and unhooked the spring swivel, to Piter’s great delight, which he displayed by scuffling about our feet, trying to get himself trodden upon by all in turn, and ending by making a rush at the bull’s-eye lantern, and knocking his head against the round glass.
“Pretty little creature!” said Uncle Bob. “Well, I should have given him credit for more sense than a moth.”
Piter growled as if he were dissatisfied with the result, and then his hideous little crinkled black nose was seen as he smelt the lantern all round, and, apparently gratified by the odour of the oil, he licked his black lips.
“Now then, upstairs,” said Uncle Dick, leading the way with the lantern. But as soon as the light fell upon the flight of stone stairs Piter went to the front with a rush, his claws pattered on the stones, and he was up at the top waiting for us, after giving a scratch at a rough door, his ugly countenance looking down curiously out of the darkness.
“Good dog!” said Uncle Dick as he reached the landing and unlatched the door.
Piter squeezed himself through almost before the door was six inches open, and the next moment he burst into a furious deep-mouthed bay.
“Someone there!” cried Uncle Dick, and he rushed in, lantern in hand, to make the light play round, while my uncles changed the hold of their stout sticks, holding them cudgel fashion ready for action.
The light rested directly on the face and chest of a man sitting up between a couple of rusty lathes, where a quantity of straw had been thrown down, and at the first glimpse it was evident that the dog had just aroused him from a heavy sleep.
His eyes were half-closed, bits of oat straw were sticking in his short dark hair, and glistened like fragments of pale gold in the light cast by the bull’s-eye, while two blackened and roughened hands were applied to his eyes as if he were trying to rub them bright.