“I’m going to put that chap out of his misery, sir,” replied the American.
“No, no; don’t fire. It’s waste of a charge.”
“Not a-going to, sir. There’s more ways of killing a cat, you know, than hanging it. Eh, Squire Chris?”
As he spoke Griggs put his hand to his belt, in which a stout keen hunting or bowie-knife was stuck, and drew out the glittering blade.
“Going to cut his head off?” said Chris eagerly.
“Yes, unless you like to, squire.”
“I will,” cried Chris.
“I don’t want you to run any risks, my boy,” said the doctor. “Do you think you can do it without danger?”
“Oh yes, father,” said the lad, drawing his own perfectly new knife. “See how slowly the thing keeps on lifting up its head, to hold it quivering in the air before letting it fall down again on the rock.”
“But if it saw you go near it might strike at you.”