“Nay, but stay,” said Tarlton, catching hold of his arm, “stay; I was only joking.”
“Let go my arm—you were in earnest.”
“But then that was before I knew there was any harm. If you think there’s any harm?”
“If,” said Loveit.
“Why, you know, I might not know; for Tom told me it’s a thing that’s often done. Ask Tom.”
“I’ll ask nobody! Surely we know better what’s right and wrong than Tom does.”
“But only just ask him, to hear what he’ll say.”
“I don’t want to hear what he’ll say,” cried Loveit, vehemently: “the dog will die in agonies—in agonies! There was a dog poisoned at my father’s—I saw him in the yard. Poor creature! He lay and howled and writhed himself!”
“Poor creature! Well, there’s no harm done now,” cried Tarlton, in a hypocritical tone. But though he thought fit to dissemble with Loveit, he was thoroughly determined in his purpose.
Poor Loveit, in haste to get away, returned to his friend Hardy; but his mind was in such agitation, that he neither talked nor moved like himself; and two or three times his heart was so full that he was ready to burst into tears.