“Go in, I tell you!” shouted Bevis, beside himself with anger; the spaniel shivered at his feet. Again Bevis lifted him, swung him, and hurled him as far this time as the reed-grass. The next instant Pan was at his feet again. Encouragement, persuasion, threats, blows, all failed; it was like trying to make him climb a tree. The dog could not force his nature. Mark threw dead sticks into the reed-grass; Bevis flung some stones.
“You hateful wretch!” Bevis stamped his foot. “Get away.” Pan ran back. “Give me the gun—I’ll go in.”
If the dog would not, he would hunt the creature from its lair himself.
“O! stop!” said Mark, catching hold of his arm, “don’t—don’t go in—you don’t know!”
“Let me go.”
“I won’t.”
“I will go.”
They struggled with each other.
“Shoot first,” said Mark, finding he could not hold him. “Shoot an arrow—two arrows. Here—here’s the bow.”
Bevis seized the bow and fitted the arrow.