“Some dog that—what’ll you take for ’m?” Daughtry asked, studying Michael with critical eyes of interest. “What kind of a temper’s he got?”
“Try him,” was the answer.
The steward put out his hand to pat him on the head, but withdrew it hastily as Michael, with bristle and growl, viciously bared his teeth.
“Go on, go on, he won’t hurt you,” the delighted passengers urged.
This time the steward’s hand was barely missed by a snap, and he leaped back as Michael ferociously sprang the length of the rope at him.
“Take ’m away!” Dag Daughtry roared angrily. “The treacherous beast! I wouldn’t take ’m for gift!”
And as they obeyed, Michael strained backward in a paroxysm of rage, making fierce short jumps to the end of the tether as he snarled and growled with utmost fierceness at the steward.
“Eh? Who’d say he ever seen me in his life?” Daughtry demanded triumphantly. “It’s a trick I never seen played myself, but I’ve heard tell about it. The old-time poachers in England used to do it with their lurcher dogs. If they did get the dog of a strange poacher, no gamekeeper or constable could identify ’m by the dog—mum was the word.”
“Tell you what, he knows things, that Killeny. He knows English. Right now, in my room, with the door open, an’ so as he can find ’m, is shoes, slippers, cap, towel, hair-brush, an’ tobacco pouch. What’ll it be? Name it an’ he’ll fetch it.”
So immediately and variously did the passengers respond that every article was called for.