“Chuckle, chuckle, chuckle,” came from a great tree which sheltered one side of the house, and the dogs looked up and barked.
“’Morning, young master,” came in a harsh, cracked voice: “smart morning. Here, you two: I’m just going to feed old Nibbler, and I’ll give you a share.”
There was the rattle of a chain hard by, and a heavy bark, as a great dog like a greyhound that had grown stout, came out of a kennel formed of a barrel laid on its side. The great beast looked at the two collies and growled, while the latter set up the dense frills of hair about their necks and showed their teeth.
“None o’ that, now!” cried old Samson. “You three have got to be friends. You don’t know Nibbler, Master Nicklas.”
“Dominic,” cried the boy.
“Ah, I allus forget. Missus has told me your name times enough, too. I can allus recklect that there’s a Nic in it. Hi, you, Nib, this here’s the young master—young master! d’yer hear?”
The dog growled, but wagged its tail.
“We calls him Nibbler, sir; but he’s a biter, and no mistake, ain’t yer, old man? You ought to ha’ had him with yer when them blacks come yesterday. He don’t mind spears and boomerangs, do you, Nib?”
The dog growled and showed its teeth.
“Pst, lad!—blackfellow.”