“Oh, well,” Frank turned the subject off lightly, “I hardly expect any trouble. You know, we sent the doctor up there to look at the dog.”
“You hadn’t told me. What did he say?”
“He told me,” replied Frank, “that the dog was mad without doubt. He said, when I asked him about the season, that frequently a high-spirited dog went mad at other seasons than mid-summer, though the cases were rare. But, the point that I was most interested in was that he signed a statement and gave it to me to the effect that the dog was mad when killed.”
“What good will that do if that brute causes you trouble?” she asked.
“Well,” returned Frank good-naturedly, “it shows that I didn’t do anything so very wrong when I shot the dog.”
Frank saw the landing to which he was headed only a short distance away and sent the Rocket in toward shore.
A farmhouse stood back on the right bank of the Harrapin, a well-kept place. A long motor boat, loaded with packs which resembled the supplies of a camping party, was lying alongside the landing place, taking up every available foot of space.
Carefully, slowly, Frank eased the Rocket up to the spot, trying to see a place where he might touch. There was none.
Whereupon, he brought the Rocket alongside the other boat, sliding as easily as he could against it, but bumping it, nevertheless.
Then he took one end of the rope and stepped on to the other boat, from there to the landing, and carefully tied. Minnie very gingerly stepped into the other boat, too, and came ashore.