“Drown him!  What be you thinkin’ of, mum?” he was saying. “’Tain’t no sport at all.  You shut your mouth, gwaes.  Be you goin’ to ask your mother for the boiling-water?  Is, Bob Williams, I do know all that:  but where be you a-going to get the fire from?  Be quiet, mun, can’t you?  Thomas Trevor, be this dog yourn or mine?  Now, look you, if you don’t all of you shut your bloody mouths, I’ll take the dog ’ome and keep him.  There now!”

He was a born leader of men.  A singular depression and lowness of spirit showed itself on the boys’ faces.  They recognized that the threat might very possibly be executed, and their countenances were at once composed to humble attention.  The puppy was still cowering on the ground in the midst of them:  one or two tried to relieve the tension of their feelings by kicking him in the belly with their hobnail boots.  It cried out with the pain and writhed a little, but the poor little beast did not attempt to bite or even snarl.  It looked up with those beseeching friendly eyes at its persecutors, and fawned on them again, and tried to wag its tail and be merry, pretending to play with a straw on the road, hoping perhaps to win a little favor in that way.

The leader saw the moment for his master-stroke.  He slowly drew a piece of rope from his pocket.

“What do you say to that, mun?  Now, Thomas Trevor!  We’ll hang him over that there bough.  Will that suit you, Bobby Williams?”

There was a great shriek of approval and delight.  All was again bustle and animation.  “I’ll tie it round his neck?” “Get out, mun, you don’t know how it be done.”  “Is, I do, Charley.”  “Now, let me, gwaes, now do let me.”  “You be sure he won’t bite?” “He hain’t mad, be he?” “Suppose we were to tie up his mouth first?”

The puppy still fawned and curried favor, and wagged that sorry tail, and lay down crouching on one side on the ground, sad and sorry in his heart, but still with a little gleam of hope; for now and again he tried to play, and put up his face, praying with those fond, friendly eyes.  And then at last his gambols and poor efforts for mercy ceased, and he lifted up his wretched voice in one long dismal whine of despair.  But he licked the hand of the boy that tied the noose.

He was slowly and gently swung into the air as Lucian went by unheeded; he struggled, and his legs twisted and writhed.  The “healthy” boy pulled the rope, and his friends danced and shouted with glee.  As Lucian turned the corner, the poor dangling body was swinging to and fro, the puppy was dying, but he still kicked a little.