“Ha! my pup, I wish that you and I might go and have a slap at the grizzly bars and a look at the Rocky Mountains. Wouldn’t it be nuts, pup?”
Crusoe looked dubious.
“What, you don’t agree with me! Now, tell me, pup, wouldn’t ye like to grip a bar?”
Still Crusoe looked dubious, but made a gentle motion with his tail, as though he would have said, “I’ve seen neither Rocky Mountains nor grizzly bars, and know nothin’ about ’em, but I’m open to conviction.”
“You’re a brave pup,” rejoined Dick, stroking the dog’s huge head affectionately. “I wouldn’t give you for ten times your weight in golden dollars—if there be sich things.”
Crusoe made no reply whatever to this. He regarded it as a truism unworthy of notice; he evidently felt that a comparison between love and dollars was preposterous.
At this point in the conversation a little dog with a lame leg hobbled to the edge of the rocks in front of the spot where Dick was seated, and looked down into the water, which was deep there. Whether it did so for the purpose of admiring its very plain visage in the liquid mirror, or finding out what was going on among the fish, we cannot say, as it never told us; but at that moment a big, clumsy, savage-looking dog rushed out from the neighbouring thicket and began to worry it.
“Punish him, Crusoe,” said Dick quickly.
Crusoe made one bound that a lion might have been proud of, and seizing the aggressor by the back, lifted him off his legs and held him, howling, in the air—at the same time casting a look towards his master for further instructions.
“Pitch him in,” said Dick, making a sign with his hand.