"How shall we kill him, corporal?" inquired Smallbones.

"Mein Gott! knock him head against de tree, I suppose."

"Yes, and bury him in the ditch. Here, dog--Snarleyyow--here, dog," said
Smallbones; "come, a poor doggy--come here."

But Snarleyyow was not to be coaxed by Smallbones; he suspected
treachery.

"He won't a-come to me, corporal, or I'd soon settle his hash," observed
Smallbones.

The corporal had now got over a little panic which had seized him. He
called Snarleyyow, who came immediately. Oh! had he imagined what the
corporal was about to do, he might have died like Cæsar, exclaiming, "Et
tu Brute," which, in plain English means, "and you--you brute."

The corporal, with a sort of desperation, laid hold of the dog by the
tail, drawing him back till he could swing him round. In a second or two
Snarleyyow was whirling round the corporal, who turned with him,
gradually approaching the trunk of the elm-tree, till at last his head
came in contact with it with a resounding blow, and the dog fell
senseless. "Try it again, corporal, let's finish him." The corporal
again swung round the inanimate body of the dog; again, and again, and
again, did the head come in contact with the hard wood; and then the
corporal, quite out of breath with the exertion, dropped the body on the
grass. Neither of them spoke a word for some time, but watched the body,
as it lay motionless, doubled up, with the fore and hind feet meeting
each other, and the one eye closed.