BOBBY LOT, Eli Zitt's little partner, left his dog at home when he set out for Fortune Harbour in Eli's punt. He thought it better for the dog. He liked company, well enough, did Bobby; but he loved his dog. Why expose the lazy, fat, old fellow, with his shaky legs and broken teeth, to an attack in force by the pack of a strange harbour?
The old dog's fighting days were over. He had been a mighty, masterful beast in his prime; and he had scarred too many generations of the Ruddy Cove pack to be molested now as he waddled about the roads and coves where his strength and courage had been proved. But the dogs of Fortune Harbour knew nothing of the deeds he had done; and an air of dignity, a snarl and a show of yellow teeth would not be sufficient to discourage the yelping onset.
"They'd kill him," thought the master.
So the lad determined to leave his dog at home, and it was well for him that he did.
"Go back, Bruce!" he cried, as he pushed out from Eli Zitt's wharf-head.
But Bruce slipped into the water from the rocks, and swam after the boat, a beseeching look in the eyes which age had glazed and shot with blood. He was not used to being left at home when Bobby pushed out in the punt.
"Go home, b'y!" cried Bobby, lifting an oar.
The threatening gesture was too much for Bruce. He raised himself in the water and whined, then wheeled about and paddled for shore.
"Good dog!" Bobby called after him.