They had traversed some mile or so of the lane in this silence, when suddenly to their ears came the shrill yelp of an animal in pain. The yelp was followed by another and yet another, rising to a sound that had in it an almost human shriek of agony.
“Some brute is ill-treating a dog,” quoth Peregrine, and he set off at a run, Pippo close at his heels.
A couple of hundred yards further on the road turned sharply to the right to an open space of grass. Standing on the grass was a thick-set swarthy-looking fellow, knotted ash stick in one hand, while swinging from the other was a small mongrel dog, bleeding and broken. The stick was doing deadly work.
“Brute!” cried Pippo his cheeks scarlet. Peregrine’s face was white.
The fellow started, the stick falling momentarily idle.
“The cur bit me,” he muttered, casting an evil look towards them.
“Knowing you the greater cur.” Pippo heard an unaccustomed note in Peregrine’s voice.
“Go you into the field,” said Peregrine shortly, pointing to a gate. Pippo, hearing the tone of command, scuttled through it like a frightened rabbit.
Yet once through he was all for seeing the turn of matters on the other side the hedge. Cherry blossom deposited on the ground he scrambled to the top of the bank. Clinging to the bushes he peered through.
“Ah!” breathed Pippo, joy in the soft sound.