But the black, who was safe from attack as long as he kept beyond the reach of the chain, continued to administer pokes, with the result that the dogs trotted on as far as they could, looking back the while and uttering threatening barks and growls.
But the long spear followed them right under the waggon, and kept up the annoyance, till, as if moved by the same impulse, the dogs charged back together to the extent of their chains, and the black made a bound out of the animals’ reach.
The result was that when, after a final look round to see that nothing had been left, the doctor gave the order to mount, the dogs were right under the waggon, with their tongues out, tugging away at their chains as sharply as if they had been born in Kamtschatka and belonged to Eskimo.
“That’s better,” said the doctor, as Nic landed in his saddle without making a show in imitation of vaulting ambition and seeming about to fall over on the other side. “Down again, and mount.”
Nic obeyed.
“That’s worse,” said the doctor. “Dismount. Now again!”
Nic dismounted, and mounted once more.
“Not so good as the first time, Nic. There, take your gun. Mind: never do that! It’s the worst of high treason to let your gun-muzzle point at anybody.”
“I beg pardon, father.”
“Granted, on condition that you are more careful for the future,” said the doctor, springing into his seat in a way that excited his son’s envy.