“He’d have killed him,” said Dallas, panting with the exertion.
“Not a doubt about it, my son,” replied Tregelly. “That’s the chap, sure enough—him as half killed you, Mr Abel.”
“Yes, I’m sure of it.”
“Knew him again directly.”
“Think so?” said Dallas.
“Sure of it, my son. Dog wouldn’t have gone for a sick man in bed. Knew him directly, and went for him. Depend upon it, them two had a desprit fight that night when Scruff laid hold of him and made him drop the gold-bag.”
“That’s it, Bel,” said Dallas. “No doubt Scruff bit him pretty well, and he has scared himself into the belief that the dog was mad.”
“Yes, that and delirim trimins,” said the big Cornishman, looking down at the horrible wreck before him, the face seeming more ghastly and grotesque from the dancing shadows. “The brute has drunk himself mad. He’s a thief, and a murderer, or meant to be; and him and his gang have broke into my house. If the judge and his lot yonder could get at him they’d hang him to the first tree; he told us if we saw him and his lot we were to shoot at sight; and he’s no good to himself or anybody else, and the world would be all the better without him; and—I say, don’t you think we’d better let the dog come in and put him out of his misery?”
“No,” said Dallas angrily; “neither do you.”
“Well, put him outside in the snow. It’s a merciful sort of death, and very purifying to such a chap as this. Soon freeze hard. He wouldn’t come back to life like old Scruff. What do you say to that, Master Abel Wray?”