Gringo never uttered a sound. He just let go, and raced to the house. His private vengeance was thrown to the wind, when it was a question of his dear master.
“Skedaddle, Reddy,” I said as he floundered to his feet, and staggered against Weary Winnie who had sat watching the attack in her quiet bull-doggy way.
Reddy skedaddled, and this time Winnie did not go with him.
I might have skedaddled too, but something told me I should not mend matters by doing this. I had better stand my ground.
Presently Gringo came waddling back from the house. He was in a most furious bulldog rage. I had told him a lie, and he was telling himself that he had been a fool to believe me. Mr. Bonstone was never in the dining-room at this time of day.
Beside that, I had given him an awful fright, and he was no longer quite young.
“Gringo,” I said, “I thought you were going to kill that dog.”
He said never a word, but I knew what he was thinking—couldn’t I trust him to know better than to kill a neighbour’s dog? He was merely punishing him.
“I couldn’t stand it,” I went on, “I was thinking of your reputation.”
Still he didn’t answer me, and I got angry. “You are too cross with the young dogs,” I said. “Everybody says so.”