“It did sound like a gun,” remarked one of the men. “Hi, Spot!” he called.
With a bark, the dog, his tail between his legs in fright, raced along the shore and gave a leap which carried him across the water between the raft and the bank and landed him on the logs. Then he ran inside the cabin and hid himself.
The steersman guided the log raft against the bank, thus bringing it to a stop, and he jumped ashore.
“I’m right sorry, sir, that our dog punctured your tire,” he said.
“Oh, that’s all right,” replied Mr. Martin, with a smile. “It’s easily mended again. We aren’t fussy about dogs—we have one at home.”
“That’s good,” murmured the lumberman. “Some folks don’t like dogs, but they’re a heap of company, I say. I reckon Spot must have thought your auto tire was a big, red bologna sausage, all ready for him to eat, and he wanted to take a bite out of it.”
“He might have thought that,” said Mr. Martin. “His sharp teeth didn’t take long to put a hole in the tube. And it certainly shot off like a gun.”
“He doesn’t know much about auto tires—this dog of ours,” said the steersman. “I reckon he never saw a red blowed-up tire on the ground before.”
“And he’ll never want to see another, I reckon!” added a big lumberman in high boots. “He sure was a scared dog.”
“Won’t he come out again and play with us?” Trouble wanted to know.