The dog, Bella, is barking, shut away in an outhouse. His forehead returns to the ground he lies waiting, for Walter to jump on him. It knocks the last breath out of him he thinks it may be his last. He trots backward, gathers pace, and aims another kick. He lifts his head an inch or two, and moves forward, on his belly, trying to do it without exposing his hands, on which Walter enjoys stamping. “So now get up!” Walter is roaring down at him, working out where to kick him next. The twine has sprung clear of the leather, and a hard knot in it has caught his eyebrow and opened another cut. Add to this, his left eye is blinded but if he squints sideways, with his right eye he can see that the stitching of his father’s boot is unraveling. One blow, properly placed, could kill him now.īlood from the gash on his head-which was his father’s first effort-is trickling across his face. His head turns sideways his eyes are turned toward the gate, as if someone might arrive to help him out. Felled, dazed, silent, he has fallen knocked full length on the cobbles of the yard.
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