“No,” cried Tom, thrusting the wire into his pocket; “you’ve no business with a thing like that.”
“Give it to me,” growled Pete, “or I’ll half smash yer.”
“You touch me if you dare!” cried Tom fiercely.
“Bravo! ciss! Have it out!” cried Sam, clapping his hands and hissing, with the effect of bringing the dog trotting up, after doing a little hunting on its own account.
“You give me that bit of string back, or I’ll set the dog at yer,” cried Pete.
“I shall give it to Captain Ranson’s keeper,” cried Tom; and Pete took a step forward.
“Fetch him then, boy!” cried Pete, clapping his hands, and a fray seemed imminent, when Tom unclasped the hands he had clenched, rushed away a few yards, and Sam stood staring, ready to cheer Pete on to give his cousin a good hiding as he mentally termed it, for his cousin seemed to him to have shown the white feather and run.
Then he grasped the reason. Tom had not gone many yards, and was dancing and stamping about in the middle of some smoke rising from among the dead furze, and where for a few moments a dull flame rose amidst a faint crackling, as the fire began to get hold.
“Here, Sam! Pete!” he shouted, “come and help.”
But Sam glanced at his bright Oxford shoes and well-cut trousers, and stood fast, while a malignant grin began to spread over Pete Warboys’ face, as the dog cowered shivering behind him, with its thin tail tucked between its legs.