Once more rushing a number of rats, the dog suddenly withdraws its snout, throws back its head and yelps. A rat hangs heavily from the dog’s jowls, its teeth firmly fixed in the soft skin. The dog attempts to shake free the rat and in so doing tears its own flesh. It squeals and backs away from the pain. Injured and confused, the dog turns on the remaining rats with renewed vigour and, loudly encouraged by the spectators who hang over the pit sides and sometimes beat the rats from the walls with sticks, kills one after another in quick succession. The number of dead steadily grows until more are laid stopped upon the floor than are still scattering about the ring.
A man close to Hilditch points to his pocket-watch. ‘I count thirty-eight dead or dying. Another twelve in three minutes, my beauty, another twelve!’
