It was not so much the words as the way the man said them and the way he rubbed Pep’s muzzle that really reminded him of his master, wounded and weak, away off in the terrible woods.
Pep whimpered and sniffed and the man who loved dogs saw that he had struck a sympathetic chord.
“W’at’s your name, Perp? You looks like a good fighting English bull terrier all right. You are a thoroughbred or I ain’t no judge of dorgs.”
Pep whimpered again and turned and licked his flank.
“Yes, I see you air hit. So is this poor devil in this air stretcher. Come, Bill, we must get him out of this.”
Together they took up the stretcher and started forward. Pep was frantic. He caught at the man’s pant leg and pulled backward. They must not leave his master in the woods. They must go for him, too.
The man kicked at him. “What’s the cur want, Bill?” he growled.
“I guess ’e don’t know what he does want. He is lonesome and hurt and afraid, an’ sick uf the whole durned war, just like you and me.”
When they stopped to rest again, Pep went up to the friendly man and nuzzled his hand and licked it. Then he turned and trotted a few rods away and stopped and looked back at them, whimpering and whining for them to follow.
“What do you make of ’im, Bill, anyway?” asked the surly man.