The Rector uttered a sound like a deep oath, and he,
too, flung down his axe.
Two hours later, with torn and blackened clothes, the Squire stood
by the ruins of the barn. The fire was out, but the ashes were still
smouldering. The spaniel John, anxious, panting, was licking his
master's boots, as though begging forgiveness that he had been so
frightened, and kept so far away. Yet something in his eye seemed to be
saying:
"Must you really have these fires, master?"
A black hand grasped the Squire's arm, a hoarse voice said:
"I shan't forget, Squire!"
"God bless me, Peacock!" returned Mr. Pendyce, "that's nothing! You're
insured, I hope?'
"Aye, I'm insured; but it's the beasts I'm thinking of!"
"Ah!" said the Squire, with a gesture of horror.
The brougham took him and the Rector back together. Under their feet
crouched their respective dogs, faintly growling at each other. A cheer
from the crowd greeted their departure.
They started in silence, deadly tired. Mr. Pendyce said suddenly:
"I can't get those poor beasts out of my head, Barter!"
The Rector put his hand up to his eyes.
"I hope to God I shall never see such a sight again! Poor brutes, poor
brutes!"
And feeling secretly for his dog's muzzle, he left his hand against the
animal's warm, soft, rubbery mouth, to be licked again and again.
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