Part 65 (2/2)

”Better do it here, Master Gwyn,” said Hardock. ”We'll take him into the engine-house to the wood block. I know where the chopper's kept.”

”What!” cried Gwyn, in horror. ”Oh, you wretch!”

”Nay, sir, not me. It's the kindest thing you can do to him. You needn't come. Harry Vores'll hold him to the block, and I'll take off all four legs clean at one stroke and make a neat job of it, so as the wounds can heal.”

Gwyn leaped to his feet, seized the basket from where it had been placed upon the floor, tilted it upside down, so that the fish flew out over to one side of the shed, and turned sharply to Joe,--”Catch hold!” he said, as he let the great basket down; and setting the example, he took hold of one end of the flannel couch on which poor Grip lay. Joe took the other, and together they lifted the dog carefully into the basket, where he subsided without a whine, his eyes seeming to say,--

”Master knows best.”

”I'll carry him to the house, Mr Gwyn, sir,” said Vores.

”No, thank you,” said the boy, shortly; ”we can manage.”

”Didn't mean to offend you, sir,” said the man, apologetically. ”Wanted to do what was best.”

”Ay, sir, that we did,” said Hardock. ”I'm afeard if you get binding up his legs, they'll go all mortificatory and drop off; and a clear cut's better than that, for if his legs mortify like, he'll die. If they're ampitated, he'll bleed a bit, but he'll soon get well.”

”Thank you both,” said Gwyn, quietly. ”I know you did not mean harm, but we can manage to get him right, I think. Come along, Joe.”

They lifted the basket, one at each end, swinging the dog between them, and started off, Grip whining softly, but not attempting to move.

”Shall we bring on the fish, sir?” shouted Hardock.

”Bother the fis.h.!.+” cried Gwyn. ”No; take it yourselves.”

CHAPTER FORTY.

A BIT OF SURGERY.

”Oh, Gwyn, my dear boy,” cried Mrs Pendarve, who was picking flowers for the supper-table as the boys came up to the gate, ”what is the matter?”

”Grip's legs broken,” said the boy, abruptly. ”Where's father?”

”In the vinery, my dear. What are you going to do? Let me see if--”

”No, no, mother, we'll manage,” said Gwyn; ”come along, Joe.”

They hurried down the garden, and up to where the sloping gla.s.s structure stood against the wall, from out of which came the sound of the Colonel's manly voice, as he trolled out a warlike ditty in French, with a chorus of ”Marchons! Marchons!” and at every word grapeshot fell to the ground, for the Colonel, in spite of the suggestions of war, was peacefully engaged, being seated on the top of a pair of steps thinning out the grapes which hung from the roof.

”Here, father, quick!” cried Gwyn, as they entered the vinery.

”Eh? Hullo! What's the matter?”

”Grip's been on the man-engine and got his fore-legs crushed.”

”Dear me! Poor old dog!” said the Colonel, descending from the ladder and sticking his long scissors like a dagger through the bottom b.u.t.ton-hole of his coat. ”Then we must play the part of surgeon, my boy. Not the first time, Joe. Clap the lid on the tank.”

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