“Mind he don’t bite yer,” said Pete, in a tone full of caution.
Tom looked at him sharply. “He has got some good in him after all,” he thought.
“That’s where the adder bit him,” continued Pete. “I was bit once in the leg, and my! it was bad for days. Mind—he’ll bite.”
“No, he won’t,” said Tom firmly. “Poor old fellow, then. It’s to do it good.”
As he spoke he thrust the knife point right into the centre of the white patch, fully half an inch; and the dog, utterly stupefied by the poison, or else from some misty knowledge that it was being helped, hardly winced, but lay with one eye open, looking up at Tom, who laid the head down upon the grass. For a few moments there was nothing to see but the little gaping cut. Then a tiny drop of black blood appeared, then very slowly another, and soon after a little thread of discoloured blood trickled gently away.
“He’s a-goin’ to croak,” said Pete hoarsely, and he looked in an agonised way at Tom.
“I hope not. That may do him good.”
“But oughtn’t you to tie it up with a handkychy?”
“No; that must be better out of him. I say, look here—can’t you carry him to that hole of yours under the fir-trees?”
Pete looked at him sharply.