"In charge since—"
"Yesterday."
"You stole him!"
The boatman seemed indifferent to the charge.
"That dog belongs to Mr. Witherbee," declared Rosalind. "You know perfectly well you stole him. And—will you call him off?"
"Perhaps—by and by," answered the boatman.
He seated himself on the ground ten feet below her and began fumbling for tobacco. Rosalind was pink with rage.
"I'm coming down!" she declared.
Sam did not appear to hear the announcement.
She slid cautiously along the limb for a few inches, steadying herself by a tight grip on another branch. The dog sprang to his feet and yelped furiously. Rosalind became rigid again.