“Doesn’t he, mother?” said the boy, drearily.
“Of course not. What has become of Joe Jollivet? He has not been near you.”
“In the black books, too, I suppose,” said Gwyn, bitterly. “Major’s been giving it to him.”
“Gwyn, I will not have you talk like that,” said his mother. “You boys both deserve being taken to task for your reckless folly. You forget entirely the agony you caused me when I heard of what had taken place.”
“I didn’t want to cause you agony, mother,” pleaded the boy.
“I know that, my dear, but you have been growing far too reckless of late. Now be sensible, and go on as if there had been no trouble between your father and you. I wish it. Try and grasp the spirit in which your father’s reproofs were given.”
“All right, mother, I will,” said Gwyn; and his face brightened up once more.
The consequence was that he went out into the yard, and unchained the dog, with very great difficulty, for the poor beast was nearly mad with excitement directly it realised the fact that it was going out with its master for a run; and as soon as they entered the lane, set off straight for the Major’s gates, stopping every now and then to look round, and to see if Gwyn was going there.
But half-way up the hill Gwyn turned off on to the rough granite moorland, and Grip had to come back a hundred yards to the place where his master had turned off, and dashed after him.
It didn’t matter to the dog, for there was some imaginary thing to hunt wherever they went; and as soon as he saw that he was on the right track, he began hunting most perseveringly.