"That's why we brought him here to get a cool drink," added Angel, hurriedly, and between us we led the recreant to the little table in the rear of the shop where the grocer had set out three glasses of ginger beer and a plate of mixed cakes. Five minutes of unalloyed bliss followed and we were just draining off the last dregs and cleaning up the crumbs, when a bullet-headed boy stuck his head in at the door.
"Dorg's 'ere again," he said, laconically. "Nosin' abaht in the gabbage 'eap."
"Tie a can on 'is tile," said the grocer.
The boy disappeared, and the three of us pushed back our chairs and followed in his wake, scenting adventure in the littered yard behind the shop with its strange odours of bygone fruit and greens.
The dog, a small, black, Scottish terrier, was dragging an end of Boulogna sausage from the garbage heap. The bullet-headed boy winked at us, selected an empty can from the heap, produced a piece of string from his pocket, and grasped the terrier by the collar. But only for a moment. With a rush of concentrated fury it flew at his legs, gave him a sharp snap, and darted back to its sausage, with a warning glean of its eyes in our direction.
"Ow," yelled the boy, doubling up, "'e's bit me sumpfin' cruel! You see if I daon't brain 'im for that!"
He snatched up an axe and brandished it. The terrier dropped its sausage and showed its little pointed teeth.
We three, with one impulse, flung ourselves between it and the boy.
"You dare touch that dog," shouted Angel.
"Oo's goin' to stop me, Mister Nosey Parker?" sneered the boy, with a flourish of his axe.