Strangely enough, they had a rendezvous on a hill-top, where most of them met every night, and from this a beaten track to the camp.
To-day several of the dogs were already at the place of meeting, several were straggling up from seawards, and in front (for no dog was permitted to walk behind him) was Gruff, with his well-beloved wife Growley.
When within about seventy yards of the place, where Ingomar and the boys were standing, both stopped short and sniffed the air. Then Growley gave vent to a half-choked roar of rage, that shook the hills—well, if it didn’t shake the hills, it shook the hearts of Charlie and Walt.
“Strangers!” Growley seemed to shout. “I’ll tear ’em limb from limb!”
Gruff rounded on her at once, and promptly knocked her down.
Then Gruff came trotting on, and Nora and Nick and the collie ran off to meet them, our heroes following.
That was a pas de joie, a joy-dance, if ever there was a joy-dance in this world; and those sceptical creatures, who would class dogs and our other dumb friends as mere automata, would have been converted on the spot to the dear old doctrine, that animals have souls, had they but seen that dance.
It was too absurdly intrinsically droll for description. The other two bears, Grumpey and Meg, came up and joined, and presently all the rest of the bonnie dogs.
They went round and round our heroes in a hairy hurricane; they pretended to worry each other, they barked and roared, and grumbled and growled, till the boys’ sides were sore with laughing.
Surely such a scene of merriment was never before witnessed, and when all had quietened down somewhat, they went amicably back to the kennels.