But Nibbler shook his head and growled, for the collies, after protesting, whining jealously at Nic’s favours being bestowed upon a stranger instead of upon them, barked again and came on steadily, as if to attack the stranger.
“Down, down!” cried Nic; and they stopped.
“It’s all right now; they shan’t fight. Here, I’ll show you. You ketch hold of this, sir.”
Samson took an old pitchfork from where it stood in a corner, handed it to Nic, and then, somewhat to the boy’s dismay, took hold of the big dog’s collar with both hands, and set it free by dragging the strap over its ears.
Then for a moment there were threatenings of a fight, but a shout from Samson checked the turbulent spirit.
“Give Nib a rap over the head with that fork shaft if he don’t mind you, sir. He’s hard as iron, so you may hit sharp. Couldn’t break you, Nib, eh?”
The dog looked up and uttered a short bark. “Here, Master Nic,” whispered the old man with a grin: “go closely to him and say sharply, ‘Kangaroo!’”
Nic did as he was told, and the dog gave a tremendous bound and stood looking wildly round, ending by running back with a deep-toned bark, looking up at him as much as to say, “Where?”
“Gone, Nib!” cried Samson. “Now follow the young master, and he’ll give you some breakfast.”
The little old fellow led the way, Nic followed, and the three dogs came behind, Nibbler with a collie on either side, keeping up a low muttering growl, which sounded like threats of what they would do if the big dog interfered with their master. To which Nibbler responded by some language of his own, and leering looks to either side, as if in search of spots where there was not so much hair when he began to nibble.