"Well, I wouldn't exactly say that," answered Mr. Witherbee, as he regarded the beast frowningly. "Davidson says he isn't worth a hoot. But he thought maybe if he was kept on a strange place where he doesn't feel at home, he might get fierce again. So I don't want any of you to make friends with him. I'm going to put him on short rations until he gets a mean opinion of everybody."
"He doesn't seem as if he ever had been fierce," observed Rosalind, as the dog thrust his muzzle into her palm.
"He's got a pedigree," declared Mr. Witherbee as he dragged the animal away from the friendly hand. "His father bit a man once, so Davidson says. And one of his brothers got killed in a fight. He's got the stuff in him, if there's any way to bring it out."
"You mean to say, Stephen," remarked Mrs. Witherbee severely, "that you propose to train that animal to bite us?"
"Not us, madam; certainly not! I mean to train him to bite burglars."
"Of course," said Tom Witherbee, as he walked back to the tennis-court, "he'll need a practise bite now and then. Wait and see if dad doesn't call for volunteers."
"All right, young man!" snorted his father. "The amount of interest you show in protecting your mother, your sister, and myself is no credit to you. But let me tell you, sir, that other persons hereabouts are realizing the seriousness of this situation. We are organizing. Davidson has called a meeting at his island to-night. There will probably be a dozen owners there. We're going to do something about this thing, you can gamble on that. We'll probably establish a patrol. I expect some of the Canadian owners will come in on it, too."
"The international navy at last!"
"Shut up, Tom! Here, you beast—come on!"
Mr. Witherbee disappeared around the corner of the house, dragging the dog behind him.