“He will come to me if I call him,” pondered Jake, while his two companions sat watching his face, “but you may have to kill him. Poor Rover!”
“You call the dog and leave him to me,” said the oldest thief, and shut his teeth hard. And so it was arranged.
That night the three went out on the last train, and hid in the woods down by the gatekeeper’s house at the pond, until the last light had gone out in the village and it was fast asleep. Then they crept up by a back way to Farmer Dodge’s house. As expected, Rover came bounding out at their approach, barking furiously. It was Jake’s turn then.
“Rover,” he called softly, and whistled. The dog stopped barking and came on, wagging his tail, but still growling ominously as he got scent of the strange men.
“Rover, poor Rover,” said Jake, stroking his shaggy fur and feeling like the guilty wretch he was; for just then the hand of Pfeiffer, the thief, grabbed the throat of the faithful beast in a grip as of an iron vise, and he had barked his last bark. Struggle as he might, he could not free himself or breathe, while Jake, the treacherous Jake, held his legs. And so he died, fighting for his master and his home.
In the morning the ladder at the open window and poor Rover dead in the yard told of the drama of the night.
The committee of farmers came over and took Jake home, after congratulating Inspector Byrnes on having so intelligently followed their directions in hunting down the thieves. The inspector shook hands with them and smiled.