“People would see us there. Is there none nearer?”
“There’s some in the frog pond,” replied Pete.
“Stop a minute; I know,” said Tom. “Ah, poor old chap, then!” he cried excitedly, for the dog suddenly gave a lurch and fell upon its side.
“I say,” cried Pete wildly, as he rose to his knees, and caught hold of one of the forelegs; “he arn’t going to croak, is he?”
“I don’t know; I’m afraid so. But look here, the adder’s bite was poison; wouldn’t it do good to let some of the poison out?”
“Does good if you’ve got a thorn in your foot,” said Pete, who seemed to have forgotten all about his broken ribs, and the fact that he was dying.
“Shall I open the place with my sharp penknife?”
“Couldn’t do no harm.”
Tom hesitated a moment, and took hold of the dog’s muzzle, when the poor brute whined softly, looked at him with its half-closed eyes, and made a feeble effort to lick his hand.
Tom hesitated no longer. He opened the keen blade of his penknife, raised the dog’s head upon his knee, and examined a whitish spot terribly swollen round, upon the dog’s black nose.