“Don’t go near him. He’s as treacherous as a dogone Indian.”
“Come back,” called out her mother.
The girl paid no attention. She called again, and patted her blue apron encouragingly. The animal rose slowly to his feet, looked dubiously in her direction, then, without any display of enthusiasm, came slowly towards her. His limp added to his wicked aspect, but he came, nor did he stop until his head was resting against her dress, and her hand was caressing his great back. The huge creature seemed to appreciate the girl’s attitude, for he made no attempt to move away. It is probable that this was the first caress the dog had ever known in all his savage life.
Hervey looked on and scratched his beard thoughtfully, but he said nothing more. Mrs. Malling went back to the kitchen. Sarah Gurridge alone had anything to say.
“Poor creature,” she observed, in tones of deep pity. “I wonder how he lost his foot. Is he always fighting? A poor companion, I should say.”
Hervey laughed unpleasantly.
“Oh, he’s not so bad. He’s savage, and all that But he’s a good friend.”
“Ah, and a deadly enemy. I suppose he’s very fond of you. He lets you kick him,” she added significantly.
“I hardly know––and I must say I don’t much care––what his feelings are towards me. Yes, he lets 80 me kick him.” Then, after a pause, “But I think he really hates me.”
And Hervey turned abruptly and went back into the kitchen. He preferred the more pleasant atmosphere of his mother’s adulation to the serious reflections of Sarah Gurridge.