“Leave go first.”
“Give’s that sixpence, d’yer hear?” cried Pete, clapping his other hand on Tom, and shaking him.
“Don’t do that,” cried Tom; “it makes me feel queer.”
Pete yelled with laughter.
“Course it does; but that arn’t nothing. Hand over that there sixpence, or—”
He gave a savage shake, which made Tom turn deadly pale, and shake himself free.
“What!” roared Pete. “Oh, yer would, would yer? Lay hold on him. Ciss! have him there!”
The dog, which had been snuffling and growling about, needed no further urging, but sprang at Tom, who received his charge with a tremendous kick, which caught the cur under the jaw, knocking it over, and sending it in amongst the furze bushes, where it lay howling and yelping dismally, till it gave a peculiar sharp cry, sprang out with something sticking to its nose, and then dashed off with its tail between its legs as hard as it could go, leaving a little viper wriggling back over the short grass to get back to the shelter of the furze.
Pete Warboys looked perfectly astounded at Tom’s act, and stood staring for a few moments. Then, attributing it to horror and desperate fear, he ran at his enemy again, and got a firm grip of his collar, to begin see-sawing him to and fro.
“That’s it, is it?” he cried; “yer’d kick my dorg, would yer? Just you give me that other sixpence, or I’ll break every bone in yer skin ’fore yer know where you are.”