“I’d rather have Pee Wee go ahead,” remarked Mouser. “He’d be better than any snow plough.”
With chaff and laughter they started out, Bobby leading the way and the rest following in single file. They had pulled their caps down over their ears and buttoned their coats tightly about their necks. Luckily for them the wind had moderated, although the snow still kept falling, but more lightly than before.
They did not do much talking, for they needed all their breath to make their way through the drifts. As they had no path to guide them, they made straight across the fields, bumping every now and then into a fence that they had to climb. They were pretty well winded and panting hard when at last they reached the fence that bounded the spacious dooryard in front of the farmhouse.
A big black dog came bounding down to the gate barking ferociously. The boys took comfort from the fact that the fence was high and that the dog was too big and heavy to leap over it.
“He’s glad to see us—I don’t think,” said Fred.
“Seems to have a sweet disposition,” muttered Pee Wee.
“Let Mouser get to talking to him,” suggested Bobby. “He’ll tame him down in no time.”
Mouser, somewhat flattered, stepped forward. He had gained his nickname because he had a number of mice which he had taught to do all sorts of clever tricks. His fondness extended to all animals, and he had the remarkable power over them with which some people are gifted. No matter how savage or frightened they might be, they seemed to yield to his charm.
It did not fail him now. He muttered some words soothingly to the dog, whose barking grew feebler. Soon it stopped altogether, and in another minute or two the brute was wagging his tail and poking his muzzle through the rails of the fence for Mouser to pat him.
It was almost uncanny, and the boys held their breath as they watched the transformation.