Joe drew a low, hissing breath through his teeth.
“It’s ’most a wonder as both legs warn’t chopped right off,” said Vores. “Better for him, pore chap, if they had been.”
“Hadn’t we better put him out of his misery, sir?” said Hardock.
“Out of his misery!” cried Gwyn, indignantly. “I should like to put you out of your misery.”
“Nay, you don’t mean that, sir,” said the captain, with a chuckle.
“Kill my dog!” cried Gwyn.
“You’ll take his legs right off, won’t you, sir, with a sharp knife?” said Vores.
“No, I won’t,” cried Gwyn, fiercely.
“Better for him, sir,” said Vores. “They’d heal up then.”
“But you can’t give a dog a pair of wooden legs, matey,” said Hardock, solemnly. “If you cuts off his front legs, you’d have to cut off his hind-legs to match. Well, he’d only be like one o’ them turnspitty dogs then; and it always seems to me a turnspitty to let such cripply things live.”