“Look, the otter, the otter!” cried the men; and a shower of stones hailed down upon the bowlder upon which Mons had sought refuge.
“Let him alone, I tell you!” screamed Tharald; “he is mine.”
And with three leaps he was at Mons’s side, wringing wet from top to toe, but happy to have his friend once more in safety. He seized him in his arms, and would have borne him ashore, if the enormous salmon had not demanded all his strength.
As they again reached the bank, the fishermen gathered about them; but Mons slunk cautiously at his master’s heels. He understood the growling comments, as one man after the other lifted the big salmon and estimated its weight. John Bamle had now so far regained consciousness that he could speak, and he stared with no friendly eye at the boy who had come near causing his death.
“Come, now, Mons,” said Tharald, “come, and let us hurry home to breakfast.”
“Mons!” repeated John Bamle; “is that your Mons?”
“Yes, that is my Mons,” answered Tharald, innocently.
“Then you just wait till I am strong enough to stand on my legs, and I’ll promise to give you a thrashing that you’ll remember to your dying day,” said John, and shook his big fist.
Tharald was not anxious to wait under such circumstances, but betook himself homeward as rapidly as his legs would carry him.