“We must take him home, Joe,” said Gwyn, who did not seem to heed the words uttered by the men.
“Yes,” said Joe. “Poor old chap!” and he bent down to softly stroke the dog’s head.
“Better do it here, Master Gwyn,” said Hardock. “We’ll take him into the engine-house to the wood block. I know where the chopper’s kept.”
“What!” cried Gwyn, in horror. “Oh, you wretch!”
“Nay, sir, not me. It’s the kindest thing you can do to him. You needn’t come. Harry Vores’ll hold him to the block, and I’ll take off all four legs clean at one stroke and make a neat job of it, so as the wounds can heal.”
Gwyn leaped to his feet, seized the basket from where it had been placed upon the floor, tilted it upside down, so that the fish flew out over to one side of the shed, and turned sharply to Joe,—“Catch hold!” he said, as he let the great basket down; and setting the example, he took hold of one end of the flannel couch on which poor Grip lay. Joe took the other, and together they lifted the dog carefully into the basket, where he subsided without a whine, his eyes seeming to say,—
“Master knows best.”
“I’ll carry him to the house, Mr Gwyn, sir,” said Vores.
“No, thank you,” said the boy, shortly; “we can manage.”
“Didn’t mean to offend you, sir,” said the man, apologetically. “Wanted to do what was best.”