"Oh, rotten to the core!" agreed Saltash, with a humorous lift of the
brows. "But you needn't murder him for that, Antonio. It's his
misfortune--not his fault."

"Milord, I have not murdered him," the manager protested with nervous
vehemence. "I have only punished him. I have not hurt him. I have done
him good."

"Oh!" said Saltash, and looked down at the small, trembling figure in the
corner. "It's medicine, is it? But a bit strong for a child of that size.
I should try a milder dose next time."

Antonio laughed harshly. "The next time, milord, I shall take
him--so--and wring his neck!" His laugh became a snarl as he turned. "Get
up now, you--you son of a pig, and go back to your work!"

"Easy! Easy!" said Saltash, with a smile. "We don't talk to the English
like that, Antonio,--not even the smallest and weakest of them. Let's
have a look at this specimen--with your permission!" He bent over the
huddled figure. "Hold up your head, boy! Let me see you!"

There was no movement to obey, and he laid a hand upon the quivering
shoulder and felt it shrink away convulsively.

"I believe you've damaged him," he said, bending lower. "Here, Tommy!
Hold up your head! Don't be afraid! It's a friend."

But the narrow figure only sank down a little lower under his hand.

"His name is Toby," said Antonio with acidity. "A dog's name, milord, and