Doby rushed down the hill to head off the fox. At most times it would have been a silly and a useless thing to do. But now the spent fox was not equal to any of its sly dodges.
It saw the man creature—that cruel enemy of all wild life—and for one second it paused. On the instant the persistent dog also saw the man creature—that kind friend of all tame brutes—and, reinforced by his presence, leaped with a last bit of strength for the quarry.
Doby was in at the death. He cut the brush. It was a splendid trophy. Then he gave his whole attention to the dog, who had fallen over on one side and lay prone.
"Poor doggie, he looks as though he were going to die!" quavered Doby. "Poor doggie! Come, doggie! I'll carry you to our flatboat and tend you."
So over the hillside and down the terraces and through the unheeding city streets he lugged the limp dog to the landing at the water's edge and into the flatboat and on to a cushion.
"That dog seems to have a little of every kind of breed, so we will call him a foxhound, for short," was Mr. Holman's comment, as Doby bent anxiously over his find with water and milk and bread and meat. "But if you want to do so, you may keep him for your own," he promised, as he always did on every one of those numerous occasions when Doby adopted some hapless stray and wistfully begged to be allowed to take care of it and train it.
Thus, by chance, Doby had within an hour acquired a dog at a time when he fancied that he needed it most.
What a good thing a reliable dog would be to a party of scouts, if the boy who had him could go along to make him do his doggie best! These were Doby's reflections as he watched the fagged one, bit by bit, grow strong and lively.
He proved to be a grateful brute and an affectionate one. He answered Doby's endearments most ardently. But, alas! as he recovered he grew restless. He wanted to be off again.