“Will you come out, sir?”
Dirk howled again.
Click! click! sounded the hammers, as Kenneth drew the triggers; and Dirk now burst forth into a loud barking.
“She says she knew it wasn’t loated, Maister Ken,” cried Long Shon, laughing; “she’s a ferry cunning tog, is Dirk.”
“Hi, Dirk! look here,” cried Kenneth; and he threw open the breech of his gun and slipped in a couple of cartridges. “Now then, young fellow,” he continued, “the gun’s loaded now; so come back and stop ashore. You’re not going.”
“How-ow!”
Dirk’s cry was very pitiful, and, whether he understood the fact of the gun being loaded or not, he turned and swam slowly ashore, climbed on the rock and stood dripping and disconsolate, without trying to scatter the water from his coat.
“You’d better learn to mind, sir, or—”
Kenneth gave the dog’s ribs a bang with the gun barrel, and Dirk whined and crouched down, watching his master wistfully as he stepped off the rock into the boat, and then held out his hand to Max to follow.
“Mind what you’re doing, Scood,” cried Long Shon. “Ta wint’s going to change.”