"Better send for the boots," suggested Trefusis. "He'll take it to a vet.'s, or perhaps he'll know whose dog it is."
"Not much chance of finding a vet. at this time of night," objected Vernon. "Even the chemist will be busy with minor casualties. No, I won't worry the management. I've doctored dogs before now."
He began bathing the matted hair. The flow of blood had ceased, but upon examining the wound he found that it was a small circular incision.
He felt the spot. The pup, hitherto patient, uttered a low moan.
"There's something hard there," reported Vernon. "It's only a little way under the skin. We'll have it out. Hold his head, old man. Don't let him yelp; keep your hand over his muzzle. I'm afraid I must hurt the poor little beggar a bit."
Using the little blade of a knife, Haye adroitly probed the wound. Soft-hearted as he was, the action seemed to hurt him more than the patient; but his efforts were rewarded by the extraction of a small steel ball.
"A shrapnel bullet!" exclaimed Ross. "That accounts for the poor little brute being in such a terrible funk. Give him a drink of water. He'll be better now. We can bandage the wound with our handkerchiefs."
Five minutes later the dumb patient, his hind quarters swathed in elaborate bandages, was lying contentedly upon the hearth-rug, his stumpy tail, protruding between the folds of linen, wagging, as he tried to express his gratitude in doggy fashion.
"Now what's to be done?" enquired Ross.
"Let him stop until morning," replied Vernon decisively. "There might be a row if the hotel people know that there's a dog in the bedroom. The owner can't be much of a chap if he doesn't make enquiries."