“I wouldn’t, Wallie—not now.”
Bascomb hesitated; then he turned toward David.
“Your’re right, as usual, Davy,—I won’t.”
He picked up his pipe and relighted it.
“Davy, look!” Smoke was leaping straight up, as Swickey pointed toward them. Finally, he saw the figures in David’s doorway, and springing from her, flashed across the clearing and bounded against David, then crouched and rolled on his back, legs kicking wildly as he whined and barked in sheer happiness. “Well, Smoke!”
At the sound of Bascomb’s voice he stood up and shook himself. Then he marched to his old master, sniffed at him once or twice, and then jumped up, standing with his paws on Bascomb’s chest.
“I know you’d kiss me if I didn’t smoke, wouldn’t you, old chap? Horrid habit, isn’t it? My! but you’re looking fit. Killed anybody lately?”
The dog dropped to the ground and ran from one to the other, uncertain as to which he owed more affection. Unwittingly Swickey solved the difficulty by bringing the key of David’s cabin. When she went back to her father’s camp, Smoke, after some serious hesitation, followed her slowly.
“Smoke seems to realize the situation is a bit complicated,” said Wallie, as the dog disappeared in the other cabin.
“I don’t know,” replied David, throwing open the door and entering his old familiar quarters. “But he seems to have made a pretty wise choice.”