“That’s well! Now, nurse, take care of Master—what did you say?—ay, Master Tom, while I show Faust where the boat is.” As he spoke he took up a stone, and attracting Faust’s attention to his proceedings, jerked it into the water just beyond the spot where the boat lay, at the same time directing him to fetch it.
With a bound like the spring of a lion the noble dog dashed into the water and swam vigorously towards the object of his quest, reached it, seized it in his powerful jaws, and turned his head towards the bank in preparation for his homeward voyage, while the delighted child laughed and shouted with joy at the prospect of regaining his lost treasure. Instead, however, of proceeding at once towards the shore, the dog remained stationary, beating the water with his forepaws to keep himself afloat, and occasionally uttering an uneasy whine.
“Here, Faust! Faust! what in the world’s the matter with him?” exclaimed Lewis, calling the dog and inciting him by gestures to return, but in vain; his struggles only became more violent, without his making the slightest progress through the water.
Attracted by the sight, a knot of loungers gathered round the spot, and various suggestions were hazarded as to the dog’s unaccountable behaviour. “I think he must be seized with cramp,” observed a good-natured, round-faced man in a velveteen jacket, who looked like one of the park-keepers. “The animal is suicidally disposed, apparently,” remarked a tall, aristocratic-looking young man, with a sinister expression of countenance, to which a pair of thick moustaches imparted a character of fierceness. “Anxious to submit to the cold-water cure, more probably,” remarked his companion. “It will be kill rather than cure with him before long,” returned the former speaker with a half laugh; “he’s getting lower in the water every minute.”
“He is caught by the string of the boat which is twisted round the buoy!” exclaimed Lewis, who during the above conversation had seized the branch of a tree, and raising himself by his hands, had reached a position from which he was able to perceive the cause of his favourite’s disaster; “he’ll be drowned if he is not unfastened. Who knows where the key of the boat-house is kept?”
“I’ll run and fetch it,” cried the good-natured man; “it’s at the receiving-house, I believe.”
“Quick! or it will be of no use!” said Lewis in the greatest excitement.
The man hurried off, but the crowd round the spot had now become so dense—even carriages filled with fashionably-dressed ladies having stopped to learn the catastrophe—that it was no easy matter for him to make his way through it, and several minutes elapsed without witnessing his return. In the meantime the poor dog’s struggles were becoming fainter and fainter; his whining had changed to something between a hoarse bark and a howl, a sound so clearly indicative of suffering as to be most distressing to the bystanders; and it was evident that if some effort were not speedily made for his relief he must sink.
“He shall not perish unassisted!” exclaimed Lewis impetuously; “who will lend me a knife?”
Several were immediately offered him, from which he selected one with a broad blade.