He dropped off to sleep at last, scratching 'imself, but about three
o'clock in the morning Ginger woke up with a 'orrible start and sat up
in bed shivering. Sam and Peter woke up, too, and, raising themselves
in bed, looked at the dog, wot was sitting on its tail, with its 'ead
back, moaning fit to break its 'art.
"Wot's the matter?" ses old Sam, in a shaky voice. "Stop it! Stop it,
d'ye hear!"
"P'r'aps it's dying," ses Ginger, as the dog let off a 'owl like a
steamer coming up the river. "Stop it, you brute!"
"He'll wake the 'ouse up in a minute," ses Peter. "Take 'im downstairs
and kick 'im into the street, Sam."
"Take 'im yourself," ses Sam. "Hsh! Somebody's coming upstairs. Poor
old doggie. Come along, then. Come along."
The dog left off his 'owling, and went over and licked 'im just as the
landlady and one or two more came to the door and called out to know wot
they meant by it.
"It's all right, missis," ses Sam. "It's on'y pore Ginger. You keep
quiet," he ses in a whisper, turning to Ginger.
"Wot's he making that row about?" ses the landlady. "He made my blood
run cold."
"He's got a touch o' toothache," ses Sam.
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