Part 15 (1/2)
”Now be good, child'n,” she said, in pa.s.sing out, ”and don't 'urt poor little Dumps.”
”Oh no,” chorused the five, while, with faces of intense and real solemnity, they a.s.sured nurse that they would not hurt Dumps for the world.
”We'll be _so_ dood!” remarked Dolly, as the door closed--and she really meant it.
”What'll we do to him now?” asked Harry, whose patience was exhausted.
”Tut off him's head,” cried Dolly, clapping her fat little hands.
”No, burn him for a witch,” said Jenny.
”Oh no! ve'll skeese him flat till he's bu'sted,” suggested Job.
But Jenny thought that would be too cruel, and Harry said it would be too tame.
It must not be supposed that these and several other appalling tortures were meant to be really attempted. As Job afterwards said, it was only play.
”Oh! I'll tell you what we'll do,” said Jack, who was considerably in advance of the others in regard to education, ”we'll turn him into Joan of Arc.”
”What's Joan of Arc?” asked Job.
”It isn't a what--it's a who,” cried Jack, laughing.
”Is it like Noah's Ark?” inquired Dolly.
”No, no; it's a lady who lived in France, an' thought she was sent to deliver her country from--from--I don't know all what, an' put on men's clo'es an' armour, an' went out to battle, an' was burnt.”
”Bu'nt!” shouted Dolly, with sparkling eyes; ”oh, what fun!--We're goin'
to bu'n you, Pompey.” They called him by Lilly Blythe's name.
Dumps, who sat in a confused heap in a corner, panting, seemed regardless of the fate that awaited him.
”But where shall we find armour?” said Harry.
”_I_ know,” exclaimed Job, going to the fireplace, and seizing the lid of a saucepan which stood on the hearth near enough to the tall fender to be within reach, ”here's somethin'.”
”Capital--a breastplate! Just the thing!” cried Jack, seizing it, and whistling to Dumps.
”And here's a first-rate helmet,” said Harry, producing a toy drum with the heads out.
The strong contrast between my doggie's conditions of grigginess and humiliation has already been referred to. Aware that something unusual was pending, he crawled towards Jack with every hair trailing in lowly submission. Poor Joan of Arc might have had a happier fate if she had been influenced by a similar spirit!
”Now, sir, stand up on your hind-legs.”
The already well-trained and obedient creature obeyed.
”There,” he said, tying the lid to his hairy bosom; ”and there,” he continued, thrusting the drum on his meek head, which it fitted exactly; ”now, Madame Joan, come away--the f.a.gots are ready.”
With Harry's aid, and to the ineffable joy of Jenny, Job, and Dolly, the little dog was carefully bound to the leg of a small table, and bits of broken toys--of which there were heaps--were piled round it for f.a.gots.