“Well, sir, I was thinking a deal about that dog last night, for I couldn’t sleep, being a bit overcome like.”
“Yes, I was awake a long time,” said Tom, with a sigh.
“Not so long as I was, sir, I’ll bet a bewry pear. Well, sir, I lay a-thinking that if—mind, I only says if, sir—if Pete Warboys was to die, how would it be, if master didn’t say no, and I was to knock him up a barrel for a kennel to live in our yard?”
“I should ask uncle to let me keep him, David, for he’s a wonderful dog.”
“I don’t go so far as that, sir, for he’s a dog as has had a horful bad eddication, but something might be made of him; and it was a pity, seeing why he came yowling about our place, as you was so handy heaving stones at him.”
“What?” cried Tom indignantly.
“Well, sir, p’r’aps it was me. But it weer a pity, warn’t it?”
“Brutal,” cried Tom.
“Ah, it weer. He’s a horful hugly dog though.”
“Not handsome certainly,” replied Tom.