Chapter Forty Nine.
“Oh, I can’t stand this,” said Tom, jumping up, and hurriedly beginning to dress, after throwing open his window to see the east gradually turning red, and the clouds far up tinged and necked with orange.
Then there was another low, piteous howling.
“Lie down, you brute!” he shouted out of the window, to be answered by a quick, yelping bark.
“Perhaps Pete is not about, and the dog really is starving,” thought Tom; and he finished dressing as another howl broke out, more piteous and mournful than ever.
“Will you be quiet!” he shouted from the window. “Lie down, and I’ll bring you a bone, you ugly, rat-tailed, low-bred dog-ruffian.”
He was interrupted by a joyous, yelping bark.
“That dog does want to be friends with me, but I can’t have him here,” thought Tom, who now opened his door as quietly as he could, but it gave a loud creak, so did one of the boards, as he walked towards the staircase.
“That you, Tom?” came from his uncle’s room.
“Yes, uncle.”