The dog made a bound to the full extent of its chain, and uttered a deep bay.
“All right, Nib. Gone!” cried Samson, showing his yellow teeth. “Breakfast.”
The dog’s manner changed directly.
“Come and pat him, Master Nico-de—Dick-o-me—I say, sir, hadn’t I better keep to Nic?”
“Yes, if you like,” replied the boy, approaching the great dog, but only to be received with a low growl.
“Ah!” shouted Samson, “didn’t I tell you this was young master come home? Down!”
The dog threw itself on its side, blinked at him with one eye and raised one paw deprecatingly, as it slowly rapped the ground with its long thin tail.
“Now come and put your foot on his neck, sir, and pat his head. Don’t you be afraid.”
“I’m not going to be,” said Nic; though he felt a little nervous, and thought of the consequences of a snap from those steel-trap jaws.
“That’s right, sir. There—you’ll be friends enough after this, Nibbler knows.”