She was driving the bullying sheriff away from the cook-tent—away from the camp, indeed. He was going sideways like a crab, and Barnacle was growling and almost choking himself as he tugged at his collar.
“Git out! Scat!” exclaimed Liz. “I’m a-goin’ to let this dawg go!”
“Don’cher dare!” shouted Sheriff Larkin.
But the girl deliberately stooped over Barnacle, and began to unfasten the rope. At that the officer of the law turned and lumbered down the hill.
Where his companions were the girls did not know. And the barge with the bloodhounds had been poled off shore a few rods. The keeper was sitting on it and calmly smoking his pipe.
Sheriff Larkin was some rods from the shore. With a sudden roar Barnacle slipped his leash and tore down the slope. The dog had run a lot of game on Acorn Island since being landed here; but never a quarry like this.
The big man gave one glance behind and then lost all hope of reaching the boat. There was a 204 low-branching tree before him: He leaped for the nearest branch and swung his booted legs for a moment while he tried to hitch up on the limb.
The Barnacle jumped for him. The dog fastened to his heel, and for the first time the girls saw that the mongrel-cur really had a terrific grip.
Sheriff Larkin scrambled up into the tree; but for half a minute Barnacle swung from him, clear of the ground. When he dropped to the ground the heel of the sheriff’s boot came with the dog’s jaws!
Barnacle crouched down and began to masticate the heel. But the glare that he turned upward at the man, from his red-rimmed eyes, proclaimed the fact that he would “just as lives” chew on the sheriff’s anatomy.