Then there was a burst of frantic yelps and whines, a kind of dance was performed as the boy approached with the dog’s breakfast, and then there was peace over the devouring of the bread, which was eaten in bits thrown at him from a couple of yards away, and caught without fail.
After this performance the fish was placed in a pan; and as the dog bent down to eat, Gwyn pulled his ears, thumped his back, sat astride it and talked to the animal.
“You’re going to be shot at if you go into the garden again, Grip; so look out, old chap. Do you hear?”
The dog was too busy over the fish, but wagged his tail.
“I’m to keep you chained up more, but we’ll have some games over the moor yet—rabbits!”
The fish was forgotten, and the dog threw up his head and barked.
“There, go on with your breakfast, stupid! I’m off.”
“How-ow!” whined the dog, dismally, and he kept it up, straining at his chain till the boy was out of sight, when the animal stood with an ear cocked up and his head on one side, listening intently till the steps died out, before resuming his breakfast of fish.
Gwyn was off back to the house, where he fetched his basket from the larder and carried it into the hall.
“Here, father—mother—come and have a look!” he cried; and upon their joining him, he began to spread out his catch, so as to have an exhibition of the silvery bass—the brilliant, salmon-shaped fish whose sharp back fins proved to a certainty that they were a kind of sea perch.