The Vast Abyss Part 65

As he spoke he thrust the knife point right into the centre of the white patch, fully half an inch; and the dog, utterly stupefied by the poison, or else from some misty knowledge that it was being helped, hardly winced, but lay with one eye open, looking up at Tom, who laid the head down upon the gra.s.s. For a few moments there was nothing to see but the little gaping cut. Then a tiny drop of black blood appeared, then very slowly another, and soon after a little thread of discoloured blood trickled gently away.

"He's a-goin' to croak," said Pete hoa.r.s.ely, and he looked in an agonised way at Tom.

"I hope not. That may do him good."

"But oughtn't you to tie it up with a handkychy?"

"No; that must be better out of him. I say, look here--can't you carry him to that hole of yours under the fir-trees?"

Pete looked at him sharply.

"Well, I know where it is," said Tom. "If you lay him down there, out of the sun, perhaps he'll get better."

Pete nodded, and pa.s.sing his hands under the dog, lifted it in his arms, to begin tramping through the furze-bushes toward the distant pines, from which he had seen and stalked Tom not so long before.

"Shall I come with you?" said Tom.

"If yer like," was the reply, and Tom followed; and when after a time Pete stopped to rest, he relieved him, and carried the dog for some distance, holding it too when the pit was reached, and Pete lowered himself down to take it, and creep in with it to place it on his fir-needle bed.

Tom followed, and the two lads knelt there in the semi-darkness looking at the patient, which lay for some minutes just as it had been placed.

"He is a-going to croak," said Pete suddenly, for the door gave a feeble whine, and then stretched itself out.

"No, he isn't--he's going to sleep," said Tom, for the dog yawned, and then curled itself up tightly, apparently falling into a stupor at once, for it did not stir.

"Perhaps he'll come round," said Tom, backing out of the hole. "Now, show me where the nearest water is."

"It ain't fur now," said Pete, following him. "It's where I gets water to drink;" and starting off for the edge of the fir-wood, Tom followed, feeling puzzled at the change that had come over the scene.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

In a few minutes Pete stopped at the edge of a hollow, where, half covered by sedge rushes and bog plantain, there lay a good-sized pool of clear water, down to which Tom made his way, followed by his companion, and after taking a hearty draught, which was wonderfully clear and refres.h.i.+ng, he began to bathe his cuts and bruises, and rid himself of the half-dried blood.

While Tom bathed his face and hands, Pete stood looking on, till suddenly the former raised his head.

"Hulloo! Why don't you have a wash?" he said sharply.

Pete made no reply, but stepped down to the water's edge, went upon his knees, and began to bathe his face.

While he was busy Tom rose, and made the best use he could of his pocket-handkerchief by way of a towel, and when he was pretty well dry he went along to where the water lay calm and still in a corner of the pool. Here, by approaching cautiously, he was able to lie down upon his chest, and gaze into what formed as good a looking-gla.s.s as was ever owned by his savage ancestors.

The sight the boy saw was startling.

"Oh dear!" he half groaned; "what will Mrs Fidler say--and uncle?"

He stood up thinking for a few minutes, watching Pete, who kept on dipping his hands into the cool water, and holding them full up to his burning face; and as Tom looked, and thought that there was no one to call the rough lad to account, he appeared to be seeing everything about him with wonderful clearness--there were the long shadows of the pines cast across the pool with streaks of golden suns.h.i.+ne, in which the silver water b.u.t.tercups, with their two kinds of leaves, lay thick above and below the surface; along by the edge were the branched bur-reeds, with their round spiked stars of seed-vessels; close by the pinky flowering rush was growing, and in the shallows the water soldier thrust up stiffly its many heads. And all the time splash--splash--splash-- there was the faint sound of the water as Pete scooped it up, and bathed his battered face.

The scene was very beautiful and attracted Tom; but there were dark shadows in his mind beckoning him away--to wit, his uncle and Mrs Fidler, ready to ask him why he was in such a plight.

"It's like taking one of the old lady's doses of medicine," he said to himself at last. "I'd better toss it off and get it over, so here goes."

He walked back round the edge of the pool, and Pete must have heard him coming, but all the sign he made was to thrust one wet hand into his pocket and go on bathing himself with the other.

Tom looked on in silence for a few moments.

"I'm going now," he said.

Pete went on splas.h.i.+ng, and Tom hesitated.

Then--

"Face hurt much?"

Pete gave a duck with his head which was meant for an a.s.sent, and continued splas.h.i.+ng.

"So does mine," said Tom suddenly, "and I ache all over."

There was another pause.

"I say!"

Pete held his head still, but did not turn round, keeping his face within a few inches of the water.

"It was all your fault: I didn't want to fight."

Pete began splas.h.i.+ng again.

"I'm going home now; I shall come and see how the dog is to-morrow."

The only sign made by Pete was to take his left hand from his pocket, and hold it as far behind him as he could reach, with something held between his finger and thumb.

Tom stared, for it was the sixpence he had given him before the fight.

"I don't want it," said Tom; and he turned away, plunged in among the fir-trees, and as soon as he was in shelter looked back, to see that Pete was still bending over the water and holding the coin out behind him.

"Oh, I do wish it was dark," thought Tom, "so that I could get in without being seen. It'll be weeks before my face is quite well again.

And I wanted to be friendly too. All my blackberries and mushrooms gone. Oh, how my head aches; just as if I'd been knocking it against a wall."

By this time he had reached the far edge of the pine-wood, and stepped down into the lane, to begin walking fast with his head hanging, and a feeling of depression and misery making him long for the peace of his own little room.

But still his brain kept on actively at work, forming little pictures of the events of the afternoon, while his thoughts in his mental musings took the form of short, terse sentences.

"I hate fighting.--That's making friends with him.--He'll always hate me now.--Mr Maxted's all wrong.--But Pete does love his dog.--How queer about that sixpence."

"Good-afternoon, Tom."