“I don’t intend that Mike shall get into trouble.”
As he spoke, he laid his hand on his hip pocket where reposed his revolver.
“It looks as if it’s the dog that is in trouble,” replied Alvin, his cheek tingling with pride at sight of the bravery of his comrade.
“If he had to fight only one brute I shouldn’t fear, but there are two against him. When Mike is through with the dog he will have to face his master. I shall be ready to give him help.”
“You don’t mean to shoot the fellow?” said the alarmed Captain.
“It won’t be necessary,” was the quiet response.
The next exploit of Mike was brilliant. He did not kick at the dog, for that only deferred the decisive assault, but as the mongrel rose in air, he side-stepped with admirable quickness, gripped him by the baggy skin at the back of his neck, and, slipping his hand under the spiky collar, held him fast. The brute snarled, writhed, snapped his jaws and strove desperately to insert his teeth into some part of his captor, who held him off so firmly that he could do no harm.
Mike now turned and began walking hurriedly toward the launch, with the squirming captive still in his iron grip.
The infuriated owner sprang from his seat and leaped down the steps.
“Drop that dog!” he shouted, striding after Mike, who called back: