“I don’t understand you, Pete.”
“I’ll tell you, then, my lad,” said Pete softly. “I made up my mind to get you back to the old country, and the on’y way to do it seems to be to make friends.”
“Make friends?”
“That’s it. Way that big dog, Gripper, took to you zet me thinking. If he was zet at you he’d lay hold, ’cause he’s been taught to obey orders. He wouldn’t want to, no more than a soldier might want to shoot a man; but if it was orders he’d do it. Well, I’ve thought a deal about them dogs, and dogs is dogs—eh, Master Nic?”
“Of course,” said the young man, smiling to himself.
“And dogs has got zweet tooths, Master Nic; on’y the sugar they likes is a bit o’ salt.”
“You mean you wanted that piece of roast ’possum to give the dogs if they came at you.”
“That’s right, Master Nic. If old Zaunders was shouting ’em on, they wouldn’t take no notice of the meat; but if he waren’t there they’d be friends at once, and eat it. So I’m ready for ’em if they comes after me.”
“And you’re going to try if you can find where they keep the boat to-night?”
“Sn–n–n–ork!” said Pete, pinching his arm, and as the deep, low, snoring went on, Nic grasped the reason.