“What nonsense!” said Tom; “that wasn’t a gun—it was an explosion.”
“Yer needn’t tell me; I know,” said Pete, edging round slowly to Tom’s side of the bush.
“I don’t believe you were half so much hurt as I was,” continued Tom.
“Serve yer right. Yer’d no business to shoot at a fellow.”
“I didn’t,” cried Tom. “Don’t I tell you it wasn’t a gun?”
“Oh, yer can’t cheat me. Here! hi! Kerm here, will yer, or I’ll scruntch yer!” he roared to his dog. “Leave that ’ere rarebut alone. Want him to go sneaking an’ telling the perlice, and purtendin’ it was me.”
The dog gave up chasing an unfortunate rabbit through the bushes, and came trotting up, with hanging head and tail, to his master’s side, where he crouched down panting and flinching as Pete raised his hand and made believe to strike.
“I’ll half smash yer if yer don’t mind,” he snarled.
Then, turning to Tom—
“What yer got there—blackb’rys and mash-eroons?”