And the strange feature of it was that the more he drank the more sober he seemed to become. He did his work as well as ever. His eyes retained their same innocent, baby-blue expression and his brain was as clear as a summer sky.
One Sunday forenoon, I was busy in the yard taking down my Saturday's washing from the clothes line, when Jake's dog, Mike, came tearing along the back path, making straight for me. That, in itself, was an unusual thing, for Mike never showed any violent affection for any one but Jake and he was more or less inclined to shun me altogether.
Now, he stood in front of me and barked. I kept on with my work. He followed every step I took and kept on barking and yelping excitedly, looking up into my face.
"What the dickens is the matter, old man?" I asked.
When he saw me interested in him, he turned and ran down toward the beach. I did not follow.
He came back and went through the same performance. Then he got angry and caught me by the foot of the overalls, trying to pull me in the direction he wanted.
It struck me then that an old stager, like Mike was, would not misbehave himself as he was doing for the mere fun of it. I left my newly dried clothes and followed him. He ran on ahead and into my boat, getting up on the side and barking toward Jake's place.
I became anxious. I pushed off hurriedly and rowed as hard as I could up the Bay in the direction of the cove.
As I was turning in at Jake's landing, Mike grew excited again, running to the right side of the stern and whining.
"What on earth can the dog mean?" I soliloquised, making up my mind to call in at the shack first, at any rate, and investigate.