Just then so dismally prolonged a howl came from Pete, that, without looking round, Tom cried angrily in his pain—
“Don’t make that row; I’m as bad as you. Come: get up.”
He turned then to enforce his order with a little stirring up with his foot, but a sharp snarl made him start back in wonder, for there, after creeping quietly up among the furze, was Pete’s thin cur seated upon his master’s chest, and ready to defend him now against any one’s approach.
“Well done, dog!” thought Tom. “I never liked you before. Here then, old fellow,” he cried aloud, as he thought of the way in which the master used the dog, brutally as a rule. “I’m not going to hurt him. Let’s get him to sit up.”
But the dog barked fiercely as it rose on four legs, and showed its teeth, while Tom pressed a hand over one eye, tried to keep the other open, and burst out laughing at the sight before him.
“Oh dear! I mustn’t laugh, it hurts so,” he cried; and then he laughed again. For there was Pete’s distorted comically swollen face in the bright sunshine, and in front of it the dog’s, puffed up in the most extraordinary one-sided manner, making the head look like some fancy sketch of a horrible monster drawn by an artist in fun.
“It must be from the adder’s bite,” thought Tom, as a feeling of compassion was extended now to the dog, who, in spite of his menaces, looked giddy and half stupefied.
“Here, are you going to lie howling there all day?” cried Tom.
“Ow—ow—ow! I want a doctor,” groaned the lad; and he threw out his arms and legs again, nearly dislodging the dog from his chest.
“No, you don’t,” cried Tom. “Here then, old fellow, let’s look at your nose,” he said softly, as he advanced closer, and the dog snarled again, but not so fiercely.