No sooner was the order given than Mark produced a long, single-barrelled flint gun, with which he was in the habit of slaughtering rats about the precincts of the kennel, and handed it to Will.
“Do it for me,” whispered he, with a quivering lip. “I feel quite sick.”
Our feeder hesitated for a second or two; but after a short struggle with a corresponding reluctance to become the executioner, he brought the piece to his shoulder, and drove the charge crashing through Gameboy’s brain. Without a perceptible throe of anguish, poor Gameboy fell lifeless upon the flags, and so ended, to us, this terrible tragedy.
“Before endeavouring to learn the cause of the disease in him,” said the Squire, “draft each hound singly, and let us see whether any have been bitten by him, or if the least cause of fear exists that more must be destroyed.”
“I hope not, sir,” returned Will, with a strangely inarticulate voice. “What shall we do if——”
“It’s useless to talk of what we shall do,” interrupted his master irritably, “until we learn what we can do. Draft the hounds.”
One by one was called from the lodging-room by name, and after minutely examining the eyes, nose and mouth, every hackle was rubbed back to see if the slightest recent abrasion of the skin had been made. At length it came to my turn, and unfortunately a scratch made by myself, while brushing a flea from my neck in the morning, was found just under my left ear.
“Reload your gun,” said the Squire.
A trembling seized me at these words, so that I could scarcely stand, and a film spread itself across my eyes, which nearly blinded me.
“Oh, sir,” exclaimed Will Sykes, “don’t have him shot yet. It does not look to me like a bite.”