Oh! how he wanted to impress them, and he certainly did. Their Dad was a second David. He had caught up a stick and half killed the wolf and wrenched his jaws from the trembling lamb. He, Dallas, had stood back in wonder at such heroism.
I saw the children's faces falling, falling while these fiery words just flew from between my young master's thin beautiful lips. What fairy tale was this, and what kind of a boy was this pale city lad?
"At last," cried Dallas, "the wolf ran away like a whipped cur."
Oh! how I wanted to help my young master, and thrusting my head out from my hiding place I neighed shrilly.
This brought young Dallas down from his high horse, and he stopped short, grew terribly pale, and his eyes ceased flashing and became dull.
He hadn't been lying as some children lie. He was a dreamer, and he really thought that what he was relating had taken place. He was trying to glorify this wonderful new relative of his—this dear, strong uncle.
However, the children didn't understand this, and while the older ones were politely silent, the smallest boy of all piped up sweetly, while he pointed his cruel little fork at Dallas, "Wolfths don't bite peoplths, they runs."
Dallas, trembling on the edge of his chair, let his eyes run up and down the rows of faces. Mr. and Mrs. Devering understood and were sorry for him. The children did not understand, and had him branded as a liar.
His self-control was just giving way, when his uncle said kindly, "Look at that pony of yours—almost on the table. Suppose you take him up to his own quarters."
Wasn't my young master grateful! He sprang up and went like a shot to my log cabin, I trotting after him.