“Can’t say,” rejoined I.
“Killed and ate him,” returned Trimbush, with no more concern than if speaking of the death of a rabbit.
“Killed and ate him!” repeated I, horrified.
“Ay,” rejoined he, “marrow, bones, and all, with the exception of his head.”[1]
[1] This took place some years since in Mr. Conyer’s kennel, at Copthall, Essex.
“Dog eat dog!” I exclaimed, scarcely believing the statement to be true.
“It’s not an every-day occurrence,” coolly replied Trimbush; “but what I’ve told ye is by no means a solitary instance, as you shall learn. There was a shy, broken-spirited puppy entered the same season with me, and whenever any of us began a bit of fun with him, he’d shriek and howl ‘pen-an-ink’ just as if he was being murdered. This, of course, led every one to take advantage, and the poor devil never had any peace of mind or body. One day, however, when a few of us had pinned him in a corner of the court, and were baiting him for sport, who should step in but Ned Adams, the second whip. How he paid us off, to be sure! Not one escaped but with every bone in his body aching fit to split.”
“But it served all of you right,” interrupted I.
“Perhaps it did,” rejoined Trimbush; “but we thought otherwise, and no sooner had Ned turned his back than we commenced making a retaliation upon the cur who had caused us such a drubbing. We had scarcely begun, however, when Ned again made his unwelcome appearance, and flogged us until every stroke from his double-thong seemed to soak right through our bodies. Before the cock gave notice of the coming day,” continued Trimbush, significantly, “Tricksy—for that was the name of the hound—was disposed of so as to leave no trace behind.”
“Eaten!” I ejaculated.