BOWLED OVER. A winter afternoon, the air keen and crisp with approaching frost, j Every sound vibrates sharply. From the distant park ring out the voices of boys at football. Out on their own are two terriers—mongerels—canine street arabs. They are rolling and twisting round at the game of bite Who bite can. On the pavement one moment, the next chasing each other down the road, full of life and movement. They dodge in and out of the traffic : it is less than usual this Saturday afternoon ; flashing in front of half-filled busses, and appearing suddenly from behind cabs packed with week-end trunks. The yellow terrier is lying on his back on the middle of the road, with the black one standing over him, making feeble, breathless grabs at one another’s throat. They do not hear the motor till it is on them. One bound and the bigger dog' is clear from it ; but there is a heave to the front wheel ; the back one rolls smoothly on. Just a dog run over. The chauffeur cannot see over the back of the car ; he slows up to glance over the ‘side ; but the dog is getting up, so on he goes. In silence, in perplexing silence the dog tries in vain to move his hindquarters ; his companion starts away in fright, but comes back to lick and whine over his injured playmate. A passer-by picks up the mangled terrier and places him on the pavement. People collect and stare. Excited small boys jell to each other to “Come and see a dog what was run over.’’ Vans stop, and the carmen and the botes look on at the slowly dying animal. One of the crowd tries to quiet the restless movements of the black terrier. He wanders round, sniffing his friend ;he looks up at the faces round with staining ./yes ; panting and exhausted, he stands still, only to break out in a sudden howl, upon which he is pushed out into the road —but again he is back, through the legs of the spectators—no kicks matter now.
One of the vanmen suggests a quicker death, and a heavy foot is placed firmly on the outstretched neck. A quivering of the fore-paws, a gasp, and it is over. Only a dead dog now, it is hurriedly put into the gravel 'bin, out of the way, and the crowd disperses. 1 wilight falls. A dog sits trembling and whimpering by the edge of the pavement ; every now and" then he gallops down the road, pauses, and with pricked ears listens intently. Xo hope in the gathering darkness. FTe returns to the gravel-bin to watch and wait.—The Westminster Gazette.
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Sketcher., Southern Cross, Volume 14, Issue 51, 9 March 1907
Sketcher. Southern Cross, Volume 14, Issue 51, 9 March 1907
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