Again the dog whined a little, touching the bloodless cheek of the man with its tongue.
"I'll do what I can for your dog, sir," said Frank Merriwell.
"What do you mean? Will you take Boxer and care for him?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do it! You'll never be sorry. You'll find him the most faithful, devoted, and intelligent of dumb animals. Truly, he knows almost as much as a man—more than lots of men. It's a shame he can't talk! He knows what I say to him almost always. I've almost fancied he might be taught to talk; but that's ridiculous, I know. Take him, Frank Merriwell, treat him well, and you'll never regret it."
The dog seemed listening. He looked from one to the other in a peculiar manner, and then, as if realizing what had passed and that he was soon to part with his master forever, he uttered a whining howl that was doleful and pathetic.
"Poor old Boxer—good boy!" said Benson Clark. "I've got to go, boy."
The dog crept close, and the dying man weakly folded the animal in his arms.
Frank Merriwell turned away. The sunlight was so bright and strong on the plain that it seemed to cause him to brush a hand over his eyes. He stood looking far off for some moments, but was given a start by hearing a weak call from the man.