Close behind him, bounding savagely, came the bull-dog, Towser!
Trip! Fred's foot caught in a root. Crying out in craven fright,
Fred Ripley plunged to the ground.
There was no time to rise. Towser, growling angrily, was upon him with a bound.
Gr-r-r-r-r!
Fred, with a shriek, felt the dog's teeth in the back of his shirt.
"Get out, you beast!" begged young Ripley in a faint voice.
Gr-r-r-r! was all the answer. Plainly the dog liked the taste of that shirt, for he held to it tight.
"Get away—-please do!" faltered Fred in a broken voice. "Get away. Don't bite. Nice doggie! Nice, nice doggie! Please let go!"
Gr-r-r-r-r!
But Towser didn't attempt to bite as yet. For a bull-dog, and considering how fully he was master of the field at present, Towser displayed amazing good nature. Only when young Ripley moved did the four-footed policeman of the camp utter that warning growl.