“And where am I to get another pair when they’re worn out?” remonstrated Scood.
“How should I know? There, jump in.”
Ken set the example, which was followed by Scood, and, as the boat glided off, yielding to the stream and the impetus, a miserable yelp came from the rocks above, followed by two dismal howls in different keys. Then there was an atrocious trio performed by the three dogs, each of which raised its muzzle and its eyes skyward, and uttered an unmusical protest against being left behind.
“Yah, kennel! go home!” roared Kenneth; and the collie and deerhound, after another mournful howl apiece, went back, but the grey terrier paid no heed to the command, but came closer down to the water, and howled more loudly.
“Ah, Sneeshing!” cried Scoodrach.
“Yow—how!” cried the dog piteously, which evidently by interpretation out of the canine tongue meant, “Take me!”
“Will you be off?” shouted Kenneth.
“How-aoooo!”
“If you don’t be off, I’ll—”
The lad raised his gun, cocked both barrels, and took aim.