“I did it last night,” he said; “it’s a large hole; he’ll never be discovered there. And now the thing is to get him.”
“Oh, Dave, how will you manage that?”
“Trust me, Fly. Even if I do run a risk, I don’t care. Anything is better than the chance of Flower getting into another of her passions.”
“Oh, anything, of course,” said Fly. “Are you going to kill him, Dave?”
“No. The hole is big; he can move about in it. What I thought of was this—we’d sell him.”
“Sell him? But he isn’t ours.”
“No matter! He’s a public nuisance, and he must be got rid of. There are often men wandering on the moor who would be glad to buy a small dog like Scorpion. They’d very likely give us a shilling for him. Then we’d drop the shilling into Mrs. Cameron’s purse. Don’t you see? She’d never know how it got there. Then, you understand, it would really have been Mrs. Cameron who sold Scorpion.”
“Oh, delicious!” exclaimed Fly. “She’d very likely spend the money on postage stamps to send round begging charity letters.”
“So Scorpion would have done good in the end,” propounded David. “But come along now, Fly. The difficult thing is to catch the little brute.”
It was still very early in the morning, and the corridors and passages were quite dark. David and Fly, however, could feel their way about like little mice, and they soon found themselves outside the door of the green room, which was devoted to Mrs. Cameron.