“Whe-e-ew!” I called, “but that was a close shave.”
Mark didn’t answer anything, but after he and Sammy were up in the road he said, “I been thinkin’, and what we got to do f-f-first is git rid of the dog.”
“It would be a good thing to do, all right, but he don’t look to me like an easy dog to git rid of.”
“You wait,” says Mark, and winked at Sammy. The big fellow grinned and pulled a whopping bass out from behind him.
“Maybe dog like fish, eh? Maybe he come to git fish. Then Sammy catch him, so. Dogs like Sammy—never hurt Sammy.”
“Maybe,” I said; “but this don’t look like a friendly dog.”
Sammy only grinned.
We sneaked up toward Willis’s through the bushes and hid in the orchard like we did before. There wasn’t anything to do but wait, so we waited. The dog wasn’t in sight anywhere. We sat there maybe an hour, when Mister Dog came stretching and yawning out of the barn and walked through the yard to the front gate. Sammy, still grinning all over his great, round face, crept on all fours along the rail fence and got out in the road. We stayed where we were because we couldn’t help any that we could see, and, anyhow, the idea of fooling with that dog didn’t hold out any inducements. I got a grip on my club and made up my mind that if he did sail into Sammy I’d help all I could; but, thank goodness, it wasn’t necessary. In no time at all we saw Sammy, with a rope around the dog’s neck, waiting for us at the fence.
“Nice dog,” says he, when we came up. “Like fish very much. Give him lots of fish, maybe, eh? Now what we do?”
“We’ll tie him up,” says Mark. “Lead him down the road far enough so he can’t be heard barkin’.”