In the silence, his ears caught the sound of light feet padding down the shore. He jumped up, and peered through the bushes. A big black dog was galloping on his trail. He drew a long knife, and his mouth set itself so hard that the lips went white. The dog reached the edge of the bushes. The youth slipped behind the canoe.
"He drew a long knife ... and slipped behind the canoe."
"Jim," said he softly. The dog whined, wagged his tail, and plunged in through the bushes. The youth's stern lips relaxed. He slipped the knife back into its sheath, and fondled the dog, which was fawning upon him eagerly.
"You'd never go back on me, would you, Jim, no matter what I'd done?" said he, in a gentle voice. Then, with an expert twist of his lithe young body, he shouldered the canoe and bore it down to the water's edge. One of his swarthy hands had suddenly grown much whiter, where Jim had been licking it.
Before stepping into the canoe, this peculiar youth took a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket, and an envelope. He scribbled something, sealed it up, addressed the envelope, marked it "private," and gave it to Jim, who took it in his mouth.
"Give that to Tug Blackstock," ordered the youth clearly. Then he kissed the top of Jim's black head, pushed off, and paddled away swiftly down river. Jim, proud of his commission, set off up the shore at a gallop to meet his master.
Half-a-mile back he met him. Blackstock snatched the letter from Jim's mouth, praising Heaven that the dog had for once failed in his duty. He tore open the letter. It said!
Yes, I did it. I had to do it. But you could have saved me, if you'd dared—for I do love you, Tug Blackstock.—MARY.