Kitabı oku: «The Vast Abyss», sayfa 25
Chapter Forty Eight
“Them four lights from the cowcumber frames, Master Tom, lifted off, carried eight-and-forty foot, dashed down and smashed, so as there arn’t a single whole pane o’ glass left.”
“That’s a bad job, David,” said Tom, as he stood looking about him at the ruin caused by the hurricane; “but the telescope is all right.”
“Yer can’t grow cowcumbers with tallow-scoops, Master Tom. The first thing I see as soon as I goes into the little vinery there was two big slates off the top o’ the house, blowed off like leaves, to go right through the glass, and there they was sticking up edgeways in the vine border.”
“Well, only a job for the glazier,” said Tom.
“Strikes me there won’t be glass enough left in the village to do all the mending. Mrs Bray’s front window was blowed right in, and all the sucker and lollypop glasses knocked into a mash o’ glass splinters and stick. There’s a limb off the baking pear-tree; lots o’ branches teared loose from the walls; a big bit snapped off the cedar, and that there arby whitey blowed right sidewise. It’s enough to make a gardener as has any respect for himself break his ’art.”
“Never mind, David; I’ll come out and help you try to put things straight.”
“Will you, Master Tom?”
“Of course I will.”
“But we can’t mend them there frame-lights. The wood’s gone too.”
“No, but I’ll ask uncle to buy some new ones; they were very old.”
“Well, if you come to that, sir, they was that touch-woody that if it hadn’t been for the thick paint I put on ’em every spring, till they had quite a houtside skin o’ white lead, they wouldn’t ha’ held together. Stop, that arn’t all: the tool-house door’s blowed right off. Natur’s very well in some things, but I never could see what was the good o’ so much wind blustering and rampaging about. I was very nigh gettin’ up and coming to see how things was, on’y the tiles and pots was a-flying, so that I thought I’d better stop in bed.”
“I wish you had come,” said Tom.
“Ay, that’s all very well, Master Tom; but s’pose one o’ they big ellums as come down on the green – four on ’em – had dropped atop o’ me, what would master ha’ done for a gardener? There’s nobody here as could ha’ kept our garden as it ought to be.”
“It was a terrible night, David.”
“Terrible arn’t the word for it, Master Tom. Why, do you know – Yah! You there again. Here, stop a minute.”
David ran to a piece of rock-work, picked up a great pebble, and trotted to the side of the garden, whence a piteous, long-drawn howl had just arisen – a dismal mournful cry, ending in a piercing whine, such as would be given by a half-starved tied-up dog left in an empty house.
David reached the hedge, reached over, hurled the stone, and sent after it a burst of objurgations, ending with —
“Yah! G’long home with yer. Beast!”
“That’s about settled him,” he said as he came back, smiling very widely.
“Strange dog, David?”
“Strange, sir? Not him. It’s that ugly, hungry-looking brute o’ Pete Warboys’. That’s four times he’s been here this morning, chyiking and yelping. You must have been giving him bones.”
“I? No, I never fed him.”
“Then cook must. We don’t want him here. But I don’t think he’ll come again.”
“Did you hit him?”
“Hit him, sir? What with that there stone? Not I. Nobody couldn’t hit him with stick or stone neither. Keepers can’t even hit him with their guns, or he’d been a dead ’un long ago. He’s the slipperest dog as ever was.”
“Hy – yow – ow – oo – ooo!” came from a distance – a pitiful cry that was mournful in the extreme.
“Hear that, sir?”
Before Tom could answer the gardener went on —
“So you had the trap-door atop busted open, did yer, sir?”
“Yes, and a terrible job to shut it,” said Tom. “I thought we should never get it fast.”
“Ah, I arn’t surprised. Wind’s a blusterous sort o’ thing when its reg’lar on. Just look: here’s a wreck and rampagin’, sir. What am I to begin to do next?”
“David!”
“Yes, sir; comin’, sir,” cried the gardener, in answer to a call; and as he went off to where his master was pointing out loose slates and a curled-up piece of lead on the roof to the village bricklayer, the miserable howl came again from much nearer.
“Pete must be somewhere about,” thought Tom; and then, after giving another glance round at the damage done by the storm, he hurried out to have a look round the village, going straight to the green, where half the people were standing talking about the elms, which lay broken in a great many pieces, showing the brittleness of the wood, for the huge trunks had snapped here and there, and mighty boughs, each as big as a large tree, were shivered and splintered in a wonderful way.
Every here and there a ruddy patch in the road showed where tile or chimney-pot had been swept off and dashed to pieces. The sign at the village inn had been torn from its hinges, and farther on Tom came upon the Vicar examining the great gilt weather-cock on the little spire at the top of the big square, ivy-clad tower.
He was at the edge of the churchyard using a small telescope, and started round as Tom cried, “Good-morning.”
“Ah, good-morning, Tom. What a night! There, you try. Your eyes are young.”
He handed the telescope.
“It’s terrible, my lad,” he said. “There’s a barn out at Huggins’s laid quite flat, they say, and two straw-stacks regularly swept away.”
“The stacks, sir?” cried Tom, pausing, glass in hand.
“Well, not all at once, but the straw. They tell me it has been swept over the country for miles. I never remember such a storm here. I’ve seen them on the coast.”
“Why, the bar under the letters has bent right down, sir,” said Tom, after a minute’s examination. “I can’t see whether it’s broken.”
“Not likely to be, Tom,” said the Vicar; “it is of copper. See anything else broken?”
“One of the arms – the one with the E on it – is hanging right down.”
“Hah! Well, it must be mended. Did you hear the small bell in the night?”
“No,” said Tom.
“It kept on giving a bang every now and then, for the tower shutters are all gone on the other side. Four came into my garden. I can’t find more, so I suppose they have been blown into the tower among the bells. Good-morning. I must go round the place and see who is damaged. Your uncle says you nearly had the top off the mill, and that you behaved splendidly.”
“Oh, nonsense, sir!” said Tom, colouring. “I only nailed down the top shutter.”
“Only? Well, Tom, I wouldn’t have got up there and nailed it down for all the telescopes in England. Good-morning.”
They parted, and Tom continued his way round by the church, getting a glimpse of the gaping window opening in the tower where the bells hung exposed; and then after passing a great horse-chestnut lying in the next field, he went on round by Mother Warboys’ and the other cottages, catching sight of the old woman standing at her door, with her hand over her eyes, as if watching.
The next minute she caught sight of him, and shouted. Then she shook her stick at him, and said something in a threatening way.
But the boy hurried on, crossed the fields, got into the narrow lane, and then went on and on till he was able to turn into the road which divided his uncle’s field and grounds from the mill-yard.
No sooner had he turned into the sandy road than his ears were saluted by the dismal howling of Pete’s dog, which was evidently somewhere near the mill.
“What a nuisance!” thought Tom, and he paused for a few moments, looking in that direction. “Bound to say Master Pete’s hanging about somewhere, and the dog can’t find him.”
However, he did not stop, but trotted off in the opposite direction to have a look at Huggins’s barn, which lay completely flat, the thatch scattered, and the wooden sides and rafters strewed all over the farm-yard.
Of the two straw-stacks nothing was visible on the spot but the round patches of faggots upon which they had been raised. The straw itself decorated hedges, hung in trees, and was spread over fields as far as he could see.
All at once he heard a yelp, and turning, there was Pete Warboys’ dog racing toward him as hard as it could come. As it drew nearer, tearing along the sandy road, it began to bark furiously, and looked so vicious that Tom stooped and picked up a big stone.
That was sufficient; the dog yelped aloud, turned, leaped over a hedge, and ran for its life.
“Awful coward, after all,” muttered Tom, throwing down the stone and returning to the house, where he set to work and helped David for the rest of the day.
Three times had David charged out after the dog, which kept coming and howling close at hand, and each time the gardener came back grumbling about some one having been “chucking that there dog bones.”
“Cook says she arn’t, sir, and t’other says she arn’t; but I put it to you, sir, would that there dog come a-yowling here if he warn’t hungry?”
“Perhaps that’s why he has come, David,” said Tom.
“No, sir, not athout he expected to get something. I wish him and Pete Warboys had been jolly well blowed out o’ the parish last night, that I do.”
That night at intervals the dog came howling about the place, and kept Tom awake for a while, but the exertions of the past night and the work of the day had told so upon him that he fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep, but only to be awakened just after sunrise by the mournful howl.
Chapter Forty Nine
“Oh, I can’t stand this,” said Tom, jumping up, and hurriedly beginning to dress, after throwing open his window to see the east gradually turning red, and the clouds far up tinged and necked with orange.
Then there was another low, piteous howling.
“Lie down, you brute!” he shouted out of the window, to be answered by a quick, yelping bark.
“Perhaps Pete is not about, and the dog really is starving,” thought Tom; and he finished dressing as another howl broke out, more piteous and mournful than ever.
“Will you be quiet!” he shouted from the window. “Lie down, and I’ll bring you a bone, you ugly, rat-tailed, low-bred dog-ruffian.”
He was interrupted by a joyous, yelping bark.
“That dog does want to be friends with me, but I can’t have him here,” thought Tom, who now opened his door as quietly as he could, but it gave a loud creak, so did one of the boards, as he walked towards the staircase.
“That you, Tom?” came from his uncle’s room.
“Yes, uncle.”
“There’s a dog making a miserable noise. Try and drive it away.”
“Just going to, uncle,” said Tom. Then to himself, as he went down-stairs – “Driving’s no good, or old Dave would have got rid of him yesterday. I shall have to try him with a bone.”
He laughed to himself as he made his way into the larder, wondering what Mrs Fidler would say if she could see him; and after looking beneath two or three wire covers, he pounced upon a bladebone of a shoulder of mutton, pretty literally a bone, and bore it away, taking his cap and going out into the garden, getting to the side gate in the lane, and passing out just as the sun rose above the horizon.
“Here, hi! ugly!” he cried, breaking into the midst of a howl; and the dog came bounding toward him with its yelping bark. “There; it’s very stupid of me, but just you take that and be off into the woods, and if you come here again look out for squalls.”
The dog made a fierce snap at the bone, upon which its sharp teeth clapped, and then with a growl bounded off, but stopped and came back, dropped the bone in the sand, looked up at Tom, and threw up its head to howl again.
“Why, halloo! what’s the matter then?” cried Tom, holding out his hand; “got another adder-bite in the nose?”
“Ow – ow!” moaned the dog, pressing its head up against the hand. Then it started away, barked sharply, turned, and looked at Tom.
“Here, let’s have a look,” he cried; and the dog uttered an eager bark. “Come here.”
The dog ran to him directly, and after a momentary hesitation Tom took hold of its head, and held up its muzzle without the slightest resistance being offered.
“Well, we seem to have got to be pretty good friends,” said Tom, as he looked carefully, and then let go; “but I don’t see anything wrong. Besides, it isn’t swollen.”
The dog barked loudly now, and started away for a few yards.
“Here, here! Don’t leave your sandy bone,” cried Tom, and the dog ran back. “Here, catch hold.”
Then there was a snap made at the tempting morsel, but it was dropped again directly, for the poor brute to throw up its muzzle and give forth another piteous howl.
“Oh, I say, don’t do that,” cried Tom; and this was responded to by a burst of barking.
“Why, what’s the matter with you? Mouth sore? Toothache?”
There was another burst of barking, and the dog ran on a few yards, and looked back to bark again.
“I don’t understand your language, old chap,” cried Tom. “What do you want? Found a rabbit round here?”
Another eager bark, and the dog pricked up its ears, and looked more and more excited.
“All right, come and pick this up then. It’s too good to leave.”
The dog rushed at the bone as Tom turned it over with his foot, seized it, and ran on again, dropped it, and barked. Then, as the boy advanced, it seized the bone and ran on farther, to go through the same performance.
“Very well, I’ll come,” cried Tom. “Bound to say he has found an adder somewhere, and wants me to kill it, though I should hardly think there are any about now,” and he set off at a trot after the dog, whose whole manner changed at this, for it went bounding off along the road, stopping every now and then to drop the bone and bark excitedly; twice over it left the meat and ran on, but at a word it came back, picked it up, and went on as before, with tail and ears erect, looking as full of business as could be.
“Isn’t this very stupid?” muttered Tom; “me running after this miserable-looking brute. He’s going to change masters, and wants me to go hunting with him – that’s what it is. Pete has knocked him about once too often. Wonder what uncle would say if I took such an object back. And old David!”
He laughed heartily as he pictured the gardener’s disgust, but somehow he could not help feeling satisfied by the dog’s show of affection.
At this point he stopped, for they had gone some distance along beside the fir-wood, and to try how the animal would behave, he called it.
The bone was dropped, and the animal rushed back to him barking excitedly, allowing itself to be patted, and then jumping up and butting its head against him in a way more eager than pleasant.
“Well, isn’t that enough?” cried Tom, giving the dog a few friendly pats, which made it dart on again barking.
“Here! hi! The bone!” and the dog dashed back, picked it up, and bolted steadily on again, till at about a mile from Heatherleigh it stopped by an opening into the wood, bounded up the sandy bank, and stood there barking as it looked back.
“Look here,” cried Tom, as he came up, and talking to the dog as if it understood him. “No treachery, old chap; Pete hasn’t sent you, has he, to lure me into the wood for another fight? Because if that’s it I’m going back. I don’t want to knock myself about again – or be knocked,” he added merrily.
There was a volley of barks here, and the dog was going to plunge into the depths of the fir-wood without the dropped bone, but a word checked it, and it picked up its mouthful and went on, while Tom hesitated at the edge.
“I’m not going any farther,” he muttered. “What’s the good?” but the dog was back, looking wilder and more excited than ever. “All right! go on then; I’m after you,” he cried. “It will be a grand run before breakfast, and there’s plenty of time.”
From this moment, as Tom trotted quickly over the fir-needles at the dog’s heels, the poor brute went steadily on, uttering a low, muffled bark every now and then as it threaded its way in and out among the fir-trees as if bound for some particular spot.
This began to impress Tom now, and he wondered why his companion did not begin to hunt about; then this wonder increased as first one and then another rabbit was put up, to dart away, eliciting low growls from the dog, but that was all. It showed not the slightest disposition to dash after them.
“Can dogs think?” said Tom to himself, with a new interest now in his pursuit. “He must mean something. Is it an adder? I’ll be bound to say he is going right away to that open place where he was stung, to show me the dead viper that he has killed.”
The farther they went on, the more convinced Tom felt that this was the case, for they were going right in the direction, and making good progress too, the dog never stopping for a moment, but just swinging its ugly head round to see if it was followed before settling to its steady trot once more.
This went on for quite half-an-hour, and Tom was pretty well breathless as he stopped to have a bit of rest, while the dog halted, dropped its bone, turned up its head, and howled again dismally.
“I can’t help it, old chap,” cried Tom; “I haven’t got four legs to run with; I must walk now.”
As the dog saw him advance it barked joyously again, and trotted on once more, but more slowly as it found that it was not followed so swiftly.
Then all at once a fresh idea flashed through Tom’s brain, and he fell a-wondering whether he could be right. He had never been across the wood this way before, but it was undoubtedly in the direction of Pete’s lurking-place under the great pine-tree, and it seemed possible that the dog was making for there.
But why? For what reason?
Tom felt uneasy, and involuntarily, in spite of a slight sensation of shrinking, began to trot once more, while the dog seemed to gladly increase its pace after a look back.
“It must be,” thought Tom; “he is leading me straight to the sandy cave. What for?”
An undefined sensation of uneasiness began to increase upon him. He was getting hot with exercise, but his blood was quite cool. Imagination had not stirred him; he had had no breakfast; and if a fight was before him, he felt most decidedly that he would rather not. In this spirit then he kept on telling himself that he might as well turn back now, but all the same he kept trotting on after the dog, putting off the return till he had gone a little farther and a little farther, and always keeping on, till all at once it seemed to be a little lighter on ahead, and he strained his eyes in the full expectation of seeing Pete Warboys waiting for him.
“And if he is,” he half thought, half muttered, “as sure as I live I’ll get David to help me, and we’ll trap and half kill this treacherous brute.”
Another hundred yards, and he was looking wonderingly about him, for the place was strange. He had never been there before.
Then he grasped the meaning of the strangeness. The storm had evidently come down here with terrific force, making a path through the pine-forest, some of whose trees were laid like wheat after a heavy wind; while just in front one huge tree had been blown right over, and in falling had crushed down a dozen or more in the path of its fall, letting in light, and strewing the soft earth with broken limbs, and trunks lying like jack-straws on the ground.
“That’s why he has brought me,” said Tom, half aloud. “Halloo, where is he? Here! here! old boy, here!”
He was answered by a furious barking, and the dog sprang up into sight on the trunk of the big tree close up to its roots, barking furiously at him, and then turning and leaping down out of sight; while Tom felt as if all of a sudden his blood had begun to turn cold, and his legs beneath him had grown weak.
For a horrible thought had suddenly flashed across his mind, like a meteor over the field of the great telescope. He knew now the dumb language of the dog, and why it had fetched him; and as if to endorse his thought, there came from about a dozen yards away so wild and blood-curdling a yell, that for the moment he could not believe it to be the dog, but that it came from some one in mortal peril.
Chapter Fifty
That cry was “help!” in its meaning as plainly as if it had come from a human throat, and with eyes hot and dry, Tom dashed forward with his worst fears confirmed.
The tree had been blown over by the storm, and he knew it now. It was the great pine whose roots overhung Pete’s cavern, and now the hollow which formed the entrance was filled up by the roots, the narrow passage closed, and at the bottom of a new pit formed in the sand, where the buried roots had been torn out and broken off, there was the dog, with jaws open, tongue out, and eyes starting, tearing away at the sand, which kept gliding back as fast as it was thrown out, evidently trying to rescue its master, who must have been buried there.
“Oh, you good old chap!” cried Tom, as he sprang to the side of the pit; and the dog, taking the words for encouragement, uttered a loud bark, and tore away at the sand with its fore feet and kicked it away with its hind at a tremendous rate, sending it flying in quite a mist.
Tom had grasped the situation thoroughly now, and felt that Pete must have been sleeping in his cave that night with his dog, when the tree, only held on one side, had given way, burying him. Then the dog had contrived to scratch its way out, leaving its master prisoned to lie there in darkness, while during all the next day and night the faithful companion for whom he had shown so little kindness had howled, and howled in vain, for help.
Tom saw it all now, and he sprang down into the hollow from which the pine roots had been torn, to begin cheering on the dog, and helping with all his might; till once more he turned cold; but it was with a far more terrible chill, as he felt that it was all those hours since Pete had been covered in. Worse, the position of the root indicated that one side had been driven right into the cave, the old roof, as it were, sinking down, and only one thing could have happened – the unfortunate occupant must have been crushed to death.
But the dog was animated by no such ideas. It knew that its master was below, and it panted, and growled, and snarled as it tore away at the sand.
Then a fresh idea struck Tom. He could do but little good; he must run for help, and bring men with shovels, a rope, levers, and an axe, for they would perhaps have to cut the unhappy prisoner free.
But no; he might be the means of the poor fellow losing his life if a spark still lingered. If he could only reach his face and uncover that before going for aid! And so he toiled on, scooping out the sand with both hands close by where the dog tore, for every now and then it buried its muzzle, snuffling and blowing, and raised it again to bark furiously.
“He knows,” thought Tom; and he tore away with all his might down there upon his knees, close at the side of the dog, to whom he uttered a cheering word of encouragement, accompanied by a pat on the back.
But it was slow work, for every now and then the sand from above crumbled down, great pats dropped from amongst the roots as soon as that beneath was taken away, and at the end of half-an-hour a feeling of despair accompanied the deadly weariness that now attacked his arms and shoulders, and involuntarily Tom Blount uttered a piteous cry.
It was from the hopelessness of what he was doing that this cry escaped him, but the dog took it for one of encouragement, and it plunged its nose into the loose sand again, grew more and more excited as it tore away, and suddenly, to Tom’s astonishment, head and shoulders disappeared, and it gradually struggled on till even the long thin tail disappeared.
Reaching down, the boy now found the sand come away more easily, and he was thrusting his arm in as far as it would go, when he felt the dog’s cold nose against his hand; the dry sand seemed to boil up as he snatched back his arm, and directly after the dog worked itself out again, to stand barking with all its might, and then begin scratching once more.
After working a few minutes longer, Tom reached in again, and found that his hand moved about freely in one direction, but touched pieces of root in the other, and then he started back with a cry of horror, for down in a hollow between two pieces of root he felt a face.
The fear was only momentary. Then he was searching again, and this time easily touched the face, which was quite clear of sand, the roots above striding over it, so to speak, and, as he felt upward, proving to be some inches distant.
But the face was cold and still, and despair crept over the worker again. He fought it back though, tore away at the sand, and at the end of a few minutes had cleared an opening like a rabbit burrow, which he could see led right to the roots and must convey air.
Then with a tremendous burst of barking the dog made a plunge to get in, half filling the burrow before Tom could hold it back, when the intelligent beast stood with its tongue out, panting heavily, and seeming to question him with its eyes.
Tom thought for a moment, then he took off his neckerchief, pulled out his pocket-book, and tore out a leaf of paper, one side of which was covered with the names of the moon’s craters.
“Come away,” he cried to the dog, as he carefully stepped out on to the firm ground, the dog barking excitedly, but following him.
“Must stop and keep the hole open,” thought Tom; and then, laying his paper on a tree-trunk, he wrote clearly: —
“Follow the dog to the fir-wood. Pete buried in sand. Bring help, shovels, axes, ropes.
“T.B.”
He rolled this in his neckerchief, tied it round the dog’s neck, and then stood pointing homeward.
“Go home!” he shouted; “fetch – fetch! Go home!”
The dog made no sound, but went off at a long loping gallop, Tom watching it till it was out of sight, and then cautiously creeping back into the hole to scoop away some of the sand which lay heaped round the burrow, to keep watch by one who he felt sure was dead.
All Pete’s short-comings were forgotten as Tom sat there, feeling that he dare do no more for fear of loosening the sand, and bringing it trickling down like so much water; all he could think of then was, that a fellow-creature lay buried close to him mutely asking for help, and he wanted to convince himself that he had done everything possible in the way of giving that aid.
It was a difficult matter to mentally decide, and there were moments when he felt that he ought not to have trusted to the dog, but should have gone himself, for a dozen things might prevent help coming, even if the dog proved to be a trustworthy messenger.
So strong was this idea, that three times over he was on the point of starting off to run back; but each time just as he was rising, the sand came trickling down in a way which showed how soon the burrow would be closed up; and without air, now that the place had been opened, he felt that the last chance would be gone.
So Tom settled himself down to keep the burrow clear, trembling at times as he listened, faintly hoping that the words he spoke now and then might elicit a reply.
But he hearkened in vain, all was solemnly still save the calls of the birds, and the rustling made by the rabbits as they chased each other in and out among the pines. By and by a squirrel came racing up, caught sight of him, sprang to the nearest tree-trunk, dashed up it, and then out upon the first big horizontal bar, where it sat twitching its beautiful tail, scolding him angrily for intruding in what it looked upon as its own private property.
After a time too there was the cheery call of the nuthatch, and the busy little bird flitted into sight, to alight upon a pine-trunk, and begin creeping here and there, head up or head down, peering into every crack, and probing it in search of insects. A flock of jays, too, came jerking themselves into the tree-tops, displaying their black and white feathers, the china-blue patches upon their wings, and one in particular came quite near, setting up its soft loose crest, and showing its boldly-marked moustachios as it peered with first one light-blue eye, then with the other, at the motionless object seated in the sand-pit, wondering whether it was alive.
Tom saw all these things that morning, for in his excited state they were forced upon him, though all the time he seemed to be following his messenger through the wood, keeping up its long steady canter; now diving between two closely-growing trees, now bounding over a clump of bracken, and now seeming to catch one end of the neckerchief in a strand of blackberry thorn, at which the dog tugged till the silk was torn and freed. Again he saw the dog caught in this fashion, and soon after watched it reach the edge of the wood and bound down into the lane, where it soon after encountered a gipsy-like party, who caught sight of the dog’s strange collar, and sought to stop it, and steal the letter, for which the dog fought fiercely, and finally escaped by leaping back into the wood and disappearing entirely, so that he could trace it no more.
All imagination, but as real to him as a troubled dream, till he stooped once more to clear the opening, and gaze in, shuddering, and afraid to break the awful stillness around.
Then he crouched again upon his knees to listen, and wonder whether the dog had reached Heatherleigh yet. Next whether it would ever have the intelligence to make its way there, and if it did, whether it would not pretty surely be chased away by David, who would for certain be the first to see it, and begin throwing stones.
“I wish I had thought of that before,” muttered Tom despairingly; and as the time went on he despaired more and more of seeing the long-looked-for help arrive. For he told himself that he had been mad ever to dream of the dog proving a successful messenger, since, according to his calculation at last, there had been ample time for the journey to have been made thrice over.
It was of no use to shout for help or to whistle, for nobody ever came through these woods, save a poacher now and then by night, to set wires or traps for the rabbits; and at last in despair Tom felt that he must go.
Then hope came once more, as he thought better of the dog, for what greater intelligence could dumb beast have shown than, after struggling out of the cave, to have made its way not to its regular home, where it could only have appealed to the feeble old grandmother, but straight to one whom, though no friend, it had seen more than once with its master?
