The dog he spoke to growled and showed its teeth.
“Ah, friends! Give him your paw,” cried Nic.
The dog held out its right paw, but threw up its head and drew back its muzzle, as it looked at Nic protestingly, as much as to say, “He’s only a stranger, and I don’t know anything about him.”
“Now you,” growled Samson; and the same business was gone through, with the dog whining uneasily.
“Hullo! what’s the matter?” said Samson, lifting the leg. “There—don’t make that row. It’s on’y a thorn. You’ll get lots o’ them in your toes if you behave yourself. Dogs ought to wear boots in some o’ these parts. That’s it. Big un too. See it?”
He made an offer as if to prick the dog’s nose, after drawing out a long, sharp thorn, making the beast yelp; but as soon as it was out it gave the place a lick, and then barked loudly and danced about the old man, both dogs following him readily now as he went off grinning to the stable.
Mrs Braydon and the girls were waiting, and Nic was led limping toward the house.
“Only a bit stiff with riding,” said the boy. “Then we are to be comfortable about father?”
“I suppose so, my dear,” said Mrs Braydon. “Janet, my love, see to the tea.”
“Everything is ready, mother dear,” said the girl affectionately; “and really I don’t think we need fidget. Nic cannot go back. He must stay and take care of us and the station.”