“Jump,” called Ned.
The two boys tried in vain by coaxing and commanding to make the dog jump from the window. It was only about eight feet to the surface of the water, and although he seemed to know just what they wanted, he could not muster spunk for the leap. He barked and whined, and crouched and stretched, one end willing but the other end afraid; and on the very brink he always balked.
“Well,” remarked Hal, finally, “I don’t see what we can do—we can’t get up there, and you won’t come down here. So we’ll have to leave you. I hope somebody will come after you pretty soon.”
“It’s a great big shame, that’s what it is!” declared Ned. “We’ll bring you over some meat, won’t we, Hal!”
“Yes, indeed,” answered Hal, seizing upon the idea.
“One thing is sure—he won’t die from thirst!” said Ned, looking back regretfully, as they slowly sculled off.
The dog, seeing them go, lifted his nose and howled as if his heart was breaking.
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Hal. “He thinks we’re leaving him for good.”
“He’s going to jump! He’s going to jump!” cried Ned, suddenly. “Whistle!”
Yes, the dog was nerving himself to the feat. In desperation he fidgeted from side to side of the doorway, craning, running back and forth, and acting like a dog possessed.