“There’s a dog making a miserable noise. Try and drive it away.”
“Just going to, uncle,” said Tom. Then to himself, as he went down-stairs—“Driving’s no good, or old Dave would have got rid of him yesterday. I shall have to try him with a bone.”
He laughed to himself as he made his way into the larder, wondering what Mrs Fidler would say if she could see him; and after looking beneath two or three wire covers, he pounced upon a bladebone of a shoulder of mutton, pretty literally a bone, and bore it away, taking his cap and going out into the garden, getting to the side gate in the lane, and passing out just as the sun rose above the horizon.
“Here, hi! ugly!” he cried, breaking into the midst of a howl; and the dog came bounding toward him with its yelping bark. “There; it’s very stupid of me, but just you take that and be off into the woods, and if you come here again look out for squalls.”
The dog made a fierce snap at the bone, upon which its sharp teeth clapped, and then with a growl bounded off, but stopped and came back, dropped the bone in the sand, looked up at Tom, and threw up its head to howl again.
“Why, halloo! what’s the matter then?” cried Tom, holding out his hand; “got another adder-bite in the nose?”
“Ow—ow!” moaned the dog, pressing its head up against the hand. Then it started away, barked sharply, turned, and looked at Tom.
“Here, let’s have a look,” he cried; and the dog uttered an eager bark. “Come here.”
The dog ran to him directly, and after a momentary hesitation Tom took hold of its head, and held up its muzzle without the slightest resistance being offered.
“Well, we seem to have got to be pretty good friends,” said Tom, as he looked carefully, and then let go; “but I don’t see anything wrong. Besides, it isn’t swollen.”