Web and the Rock Read Online Free PDF

black--smacked to the pavement with a sickening crunch.
 From Potterham's house a screen door slammed, and fourteen-year old Augustus Potterham, with his wild red hair aflame, came out upon the run. Up the street, paunch-bellied, stiff-legged, and slouchy- uniformed, bound for town and three o'clock, Mr. Matthews, the policeman, pounded heavily. But Leathergood's nigger was already there, tugging furiously at the leather collar around the mastiff's neck, and uttering imprecations.
 But it was all too late. The little dog was dead the moment that he struck the pavement--back broken, most of his bones broken, too; in Mr. Matthews' words, "He never knowed what hit him." And the big dog came away quietly enough, now that the thing was done: beneath the negro's wrenching tug upon his neck, he swung back slowly, panting, throat dripping blood in a slow rain, bedewing the street beneath him with the bright red flakes.
 Suddenly, like a miracle, the quiet street was full of people. They came from all directions, from everywhere: they pressed around in an excited circle, all trying to talk at once, each with his own story, everyone debating, explaining, giving his own version. In Potterham's house, the screen door slammed again, and Mr. Potterham came running out at his funny little bandy-legged stride, his little red apple-cheeks aglow with anger, indignation, and excitement, his funny, chirping little voice heard plainly over all the softer, deeper, heavier, more Southern tones. No longer the great gentleman now, no longer the noble descend ant of the Dukes of Potterham, no longer the blood-cousin of belted lords and earls, the possible claimant of enormous titles and estates in Gloucestershire when the present reigning head should die--but Cockney Potterham now, little Potterham minus all his aitches, little Potterham the dealer in nigger real estate and the owner of the nigger shacks, indomitable little Potterham forgetting all his grammar in the heat and anger of the moment: "'Ere now! Wot did I tell you? I always said 'is bloody dog would make trouble! 'Ere! Look at 'im now! The girt bleedin', blinkin' thing!
 Big as a helefant, 'e is! Wot chance 'ud a dog like mine 'ave against a brute like that! 'E ought to be put out of the way--that's wot! You mark my words--you let that brute run loose, an' there won't be a dog left in town--that's wot!"
 And Leathergood's big pock-marked nigger, still clutching to the mastiff's collar as he talks, and pleading with the policeman almost tearfully: "Fo' de Lawd, Mistah Matthews, my dawg didn't do nuffin! No, sah! He don't bothah nobody--my dawg don't! He wa'nt even noticin' dat othah dawg--you ask anybody!--ask Mistah Webbah heah!"-- suddenly appealing to the boy with pleading entreaty--"Ain't dat right, Mistah Webbah? You saw de whole thing yo'se'f, didn't you? You tell Mistah Matthews how it was! Me an' my dawg was comin' up de street, a-tendin' to ouah business, I jus' tu'ned my haid to say good day to Mistah Webbah heah, when heah comes dis othah dawg aroun' de house, jus' a-puffin' an' a-snawtin', an' befo' I could say Jack Robin son he jumps all ovah my dawg an' grabs him by de throat--you ask Mistah Webbah if dat ain't de way it happened."
 And so it goes, everyone debating, arguing, agreeing, and denying, giving his own version and his own opinion; and Mr. Matthews asking questions and writing things down in a book; and poor Augustus Potterham blubbering like a baby, holding his dead little bulldog in his arms, his homely, freckled face contorted piteously, and dropping scalding tears upon his little dead dog; and the big mastiff panting, dripping blood upon the ground and looking curious, detached from the whole thing, and a little bored; and presently the excitement sub siding, people going away; Mr. Matthews telling the negro to appear in court; Augustus Potterham going away into the house blubbering, with the little bulldog in his arms; Mr. Potterham behind him, still