My heart ached more for that poor creature than it did even for Jake.
All afternoon, all through that first night and still in the early hours of the next morning, the dog sobbed and wailed as if its more-than-human heart were breaking.
At last, I could stand the strain no longer. I went down with some food and drink for him and in the hope that I would be able to pacify him and comfort him in his loss. But the moment I opened the door, he tore out, as if possessed, down on to the beach and into the water. Out, out he went, in the direction the steamer had gone the day before.
I got into Jake's boat and followed him as quickly as I could, but we were a long way out before I got up with him,—swimming strongly, gamely, almost viciously; on,—on,—heading for the Ghoul Rock and for the cross-currents at the open sea.
I reached alongside him, but always he sheered away.
I spoke to him kindly and coaxingly, but all I got from him in reply was a whimpering sob, as if to say:—
"Oh! you are only a human: how can you understand?"
I succeeded in catching hold of him and I lifted him into the boat. He struggled out of my grasp back into the water. Three times I brought him in and three times he broke from me and plunged into the sea, swimming always out and out.
I had not the heart to trouble him any more.
After all, what right had I to interfere? What right had I to try to go between the soul of a man and the soul of a dog?