“Dal,” said Abel, after a few minutes’ pause, during which they had been stacking the wood neatly in one corner, “don’t you feel glad that you saved Scruff’s life?”
“I should think I do. He’s going to prove a regular policeman on the beat.”
A low, deep growl came from the dog.
“Hullo! Does he object to being called a bobby?”
“Hist! No,” whispered Abel, darting to the hooks upon which the rifles were hung. For the dog had trotted softly to the door, and stood looking down at the narrow opening at the bottom, and was growling more deeply than before.
“There’s some one coming,” whispered Dallas, “and that fire makes it as light within here as day.”
The two young men darted close to the side, and drew the curtain-like rugs over the door and the little shuttered window.
Just as this was completed the dog growled again, and then burst into a deep-toned bay.