“And we ought to help Professor Dimp,” said Nell. “Poor old man! I am sorry for him.”
“Say! Old Dimple’s a good sort,” declared Bobby, enthusiastically. “And he certainly stood up to that red-faced sheriff this morning—Oh, gee!” finished the tomboy, with a gasp. “Here he is now.”
“Here’s who?” squealed Lil, whirling around.
“Professor Dimp?” demanded Nell.
But it was the sheriff.
“’Scuse me, young ladies,” he wheezed. “But I feel it my duty to s’arch this yere camp. If you ain’t a-hidin’ of that thar feller, ye won’t mind my pokin’ around a bit, will yer?”
Laura did not say a word. She stood up and looked over at Liz Bean. For a moment the maid-of-all-work seemed petrified.
Then she dove for the growling Barnacle. She untied the rope with which he was fastened.
“Hello!” exclaimed the puffing sheriff. “What’s that for?”
Liz held the Barnacle with difficulty; the dog bared his teeth at the sheriff and uttered a series of most blood-curdling growls.