He had, in Beaufort, two particular enemies—almost the sole enemies that he knew. Both were white bulldogs; one lived down town in a drug store, and the other lived behind a picket fence, out toward the flats.
Up and down before this picket fence would race Bob, and up and down behind it would race his enemy, and between the pickets sped a thousand names and epithets, the most stinging in dog language.
These were Bob’s moments of bravery; but let the bulldog dart out at him, around a corner or through a hole, and Bob would flee for dear life, with his foe bellowing at his heels.
This state of affairs lasted for several months, until, one day, Bob was surprised and crowded against a high sidewalk, and obliged to make a stand. The bulldog, after worrying him for a short space, on a sudden found himself matched against a very angry lion. Bob’s temper was roused. He outweighed the bulldog, he outdid him in strength and agility, and that canine had a sorry time before the people who gathered could force Bob’s teeth to unclose from a certain white fore-leg. As for Bob, the loose skin about his throat had been all that the bulldog could seize.
This bulldog’s day as an ogre was over. Henceforth he was a wiser and more humble animal.
The drug store dog learned a like lesson in a like way. One evening he cornered Bob in between some dry goods boxes, and set about to have fun out of him. The “fun” ended with Ned dancing around in dismay, while a policeman, by the aid of lighted matches and the handle of his club, induced Bob to let go! Then the bulldog’s owner, crestfallen and wrathful, carried his fallen champion home in his arms.
Bob proudly trotted on his way, licking his bloody chops. His enemy was retired for a week, and came forth again more discreet, and smelling of arnica.
Yet, with all his victories, Bob never went around with a chip on his shoulder. He much preferred peace to war.
Bob’s greatest gift was swimming. The pointer family is supposed not to like the water, especially, save as a relief from the heat; but be it hot or cold, Bob was ever ready for a plunge. His favorite fun was to get out in the middle of the river, where the current was deepest and swiftest, and swim up stream. He would do this with no object, it seemed, except showing off his powers in the water.
Ah, what a grand swimmer Bob was! With his splendid fore-shoulders high and dry above the surface, and his mighty chest throwing the waters aside in a rolling wave, he would plough his path, regardless of the distance, to the goal. If permitted, he would swim for hours at a time—aimlessly paddling hither and thither, chasing stray bits of wood and even bubbles.