Mrs Varley’s heart beat high, and her face flushed with pride as she gazed at her son, who laid the rifle on the table for her inspection, while he rattled off an animated and somewhat disjointed account of the match.
“Deary me! now that was good; that was cliver. But what’s that scraping at the door?”
“Oh! that’s Fan; I forgot her. Here! here! Fan! Come in, good dog,” he cried rising and opening the door.
Fan entered and stopped short, evidently uncomfortable.
“My boy, what do ye with the major’s dog?”
“Won her too, mother!”
“Won her, my son?”
“Ay, won her, and the pup too; see, here it is!” and he plucked Crusoe from his bosom.
Crusoe, having found his position to be one of great comfort, had fallen into a profound slumber, and on being thus unceremoniously awakened, he gave forth a yelp of discontent that brought Fan in a state of frantic sympathy to his side.
“There you are, Fan, take it to a corner and make yourself at home. Ay, that’s right, mother, give her somethin’ to eat; she’s hungry, I know by the look o’ her eye.”