Strangely enough, Tom seemed to understand dog language for the first time in his life, for the bark said to him as plainly as you please: "Climb on my back sonny, and I'll have you out of this in a jiffy."
The lad lost not a moment in obeying. Aided by the affectionate boosts of the Andirons he soon found himself lying face downward upon the broad, shaggy back of the faithful beast.
He closed his eyes to shut out the blinding snow for a moment, and then—
Tom sat up and rubbed them, for there was no snow, no avalanche, no Alp, no St. Bernard dog in sight. Only a friendly pair of andirons staring fixedly at him out of the fireplace of his father's library: the poker standing like a grenadier at one side, and the bellows, hanging from a brass-headed nail on the other. Beside these, lying on the rug beside him, his head cocked to one side, his eyes fixed intently upon Tom's face, and his tail wagging furiously, was Jeffy, not a St Bernard, but a shaggy little Scotch terrier.
"Hello, Jeffy!" said Tom, as he rubbed his eyes a second time. "Where have you been all this time?"
"Woof!" barked Jeff, and cocking his eye knowingly.
"And was it you who rescued me from the avalanche?" Tom asked.