“Who’s gone? to do what?” cried Hardy, starting up.
“How cruel! how wicked!” continued Loveit.
“What’s cruel—what’s wicked? speak out at once!” returned Hardy, in that commanding tone which, in moments of danger, strong minds feel themselves entitled to assume towards weak ones. Loveit instantly, though in an incoherent manner, explained the affair to him. Scarcely had the words passed his lips, when Hardy sprang up, and began dressing himself without saying one syllable.
“For God’s sake, what are you going to do?” said Loveit, in great anxiety. “They’ll never forgive me! don’t betray me! they’ll never forgive! pray, speak to me! only say you won’t betray us.”
“I will not betray you, trust to me,” said Hardy: and he left the room, and Loveit stood in amazement; while, in the meantime, Hardy, in hopes of overtaking Tom before the fate of the poor dog was decided, ran with all possible speed across the meadow, then down the lane. He came up with Tom just as he was climbing the bank into the old man’s garden. Hardy, too much out of breath to speak, seized hold of him, dragged him down, detaining him with a firm grasp, whilst he panted for utterance.
“What, Master Hardy, is it you? what’s the matter? what do you want?”
“I want the poisoned meat that you have in your pocket.”
“Who told you that I had any such thing?” said Tom, clapping his hand upon his guilty pocket.
“Give it me quietly, and I’ll let you off.”
“Sir, upon my word I haven’t! I didn’t! I don’t know what you mean,” said Tom, trembling, though he was by far the stronger of the two. “Indeed, I don’t know what you mean.”