Poor Toby uttered a loud cry of agony, which could not have been
more full of anguish had he received the ball in his own breast,
and, flinging himself by the side of the dying monkey, he gathered
him close to his breast, regardless of the blood that poured over
him, and, stroking tenderly the little head that had nestled so
often in his bosom, said, over and over again, as the monkey uttered
short moans of agony: "Who could have been so cruel? Who could have
been so cruel?"
Toby's tears ran like rain down his face, and he kissed his dying
pet again and again, as if he would take all the pain to himself.
"Oh, if you could only speak to me!" he cried, as he took one of
the poor monkey's paws in his hand, and, finding that it was growing
cold with the chill of death, put it on his neck to warm it. "How
I love you, Mr. Stubbs! An' now you're goin' to die an leave me! Oh,
if I hadn't spoken cross to you yesterday, an' if I hadn't a'most
choked you the day that we went to the skeleton's to dinner! Forgive
me for ever bein' bad to you, won't you, Mr. Stubbs?"
As the monkey's groans increased in number, but diminished in force,
Toby ran to the brook, filled his hands with water, and held it to
the poor animal's mouth.
He lapped the water quickly and looked up with a human look
of gratitude in his eyes, as if thanking his master for that much
relief.
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