“Get out! I don’t want to hurt you,” said Tom gently. “Let’s have a look at your nose then.”
The dog looked up at him with one eye,—the other was completely shut,—and Tom put his hand closer. Then the poor animal uttered a faint howl, not unlike his master’s; and as Tom touched the swollen side of its head, it leaned it heavily in his hand, and whined softly, looking up piteously the while.
“Poor old chap then!” said Tom, forgetting his own sufferings as the dog stepped slowly off its master’s chest, staggered, and then leaned up against the friendly legs so near, drooping head and tail the while.
“Here, Pete,” cried Tom excitedly, “your dog’s dying.”
“Eh?” cried Pete, sitting up suddenly, and looking very like the poor brute as he managed to open one eye.
“That adder bit him. Look at his swollen head.”
“So it has,” said Pete. “Come here, young un!”
But the dog did not stir.
“Where’s there some water?” said Tom.
“Down by the ford,” replied Pete, quietly enough now.