“Better shoot him. The dog’s mad,” cried Mr Hampton excitedly.
“Oh!” ejaculated Gertrude.
“The dog’s not mad,” panted George. “You lead the way.”
“Yes, yes,” cried Gertrude.
“I think I can hold him. Stand on one side, and be ready to shut the window to as soon as I get him outside.”
“I’m ready,” said Gertrude, with a calm display of courage which brought forth an admiring glance.
“Then stand clear.”
Removing his knee, George Harrington dragged the dog quickly along the carpet, and out on to the lawn. The window was closed, and Gertrude ran to his side.
“This way,” she cried; and running to the side of the house she drew open a door in the wall, through which, after another fierce struggle, the dog was dragged, the door banged to, and then Gertrude ran across the yard and opened the stable door.
“Pray, pray, mind he doesn’t bite you,” she cried in agony.