“Well, you have no right to use it,” Steve replied. “What are you doing here anyway? Are you spying on me again?”
“Where is your dog? I thought he always followed you,” Bob observed, oaring briskly away.
“Carlo? So he does. He went after a squirrel a minute ago. ’Pon my word,” as if the thought had just struck him, “it’s very strange that I don’t hear him bark! Now, what’s the matter! Carlo, Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.”
Bob had now floated the raft down stream into deep water, and with a burst of idiotic laughter, he swung it half-way around. Up to this time, that side of the cage which looked like a dog-kennel had been toward Stephen; but the side which looked like a hen-coop was now, in turn, presented to him.
The raft had drifted down so far that it was nearly opposite to Stephen; and now, for the first time, he beheld his beloved dog, bound and helpless, in the clutches of an enemy.
An agonized cry of astonishment and horror broke from his lips.
Bob’s revenge had begun, and like all approved villains, he was destined to have a short, but brilliant, career.
“Why don’t you swim out and save your dog, Stepping Hen?” he asked mockingly, well knowing that he could soon out-strip an ordinary swimmer.
“Oh, just wait till I catch you, you abominable sneak!” yelled Steve. “I ought to have taught you a lesson before! Oh dear! O-o-h! Carlo! C-a-r-l-o!”