“Ay, sir, that we did,” said Hardock. “I’m afeard if you get binding up his legs, they’ll go all mortificatory and drop off; and a clear cut’s better than that, for if his legs mortify like, he’ll die. If they’re ampitated, he’ll bleed a bit, but he’ll soon get well.”
“Thank you both,” said Gwyn, quietly. “I know you did not mean harm, but we can manage to get him right, I think. Come along, Joe.”
They lifted the basket, one at each end, swinging the dog between them, and started off, Grip whining softly, but not attempting to move.
“Shall we bring on the fish, sir?” shouted Hardock.
“Bother the fish!” cried Gwyn. “No; take it yourselves.”
Chapter Forty.
A Bit of Surgery.
“Oh, Gwyn, my dear boy,” cried Mrs Pendarve, who was picking flowers for the supper-table as the boys came up to the gate, “what is the matter?”