“That he arn’t, sir, nowheres. But if he was fed reg’lar like, so as to alter his shape, and I took off part of his ears, and about half his tail, he might be made to look respectable.”
“Rubbish!” cried Tom.
“Oh no, it arn’t, sir. Dogs can be wonderfully improved. But what do you say to askin’ cook to save the bits and bones while there’s no one to feed him? I’ll take ’em every day as I go home from work. What do you say?”
“Yes, of course,” cried Tom; and from that day the ugly mongrel was regularly fed, but after the first feeding it did not trouble David to take the food, but left its master’s side about three o’clock every afternoon, and came and fetched the food itself.
“Which it’s only nat’ral,” said David, with a grim smile; “for if ever I did see a dog as had ribs that looked as if they’d been grown into a basket to hold meat, that dog is Pete Warboys’; but I hope as good meat and bones ’ll do something to make his hair grow decent, for he’s a reg’lar worser as he is.”
Chapter Fifty Two.
It was about a fortnight after the accident, that Tom was returning one day from Mother Warboys’ cottage, where the old woman had sat scowling at him, while Pete lay back perfectly helpless, and smiled faintly at his visitor, when he met Mrs Fidler by the gate looking out for him.
“There’s some one come from London to see you, Master Tom.”