The Great Dane, crouching close and snarling, watched him as a cat watches a mouse. Matt stared into the brute's fiendish little eyes, and reason told him that the bared white fangs would instantly fasten upon his throat if he moved.
He was not injured, although somewhat bruised, and his mind was as keen and alert as ever. Why not, he asked himself, "play possum" with the man and the dog, and pretend to be badly hurt and unconscious? The ruse might not help him any, but there was a chance that it would.
Closing his eyes until he could just see through them and keep track of what was going on, he held his breath, lay silent, and watched.
The man drew close, leaned on his club, and stood looking down.
"Hello, thar, young feller!" he called.
Matt did not answer.
"Hello, I say!" repeated the man, nudging Matt with the end of the club. "I reckon you're the one Bolivar an' me's been waitin' here fer, an'—what's the matter with ye, anyhow?"
Still no answer from Matt.
"Must hev hit his head a crack when he went down," muttered the man. "You're some sizeable, Bolivar, an' when ye fall on anythin', ye come down like a thousand o' brick. Git away from him! I reckon ye've done yore part. I'll get a rope on him now. Clear out!"
The dog slunk away along the road to a distance of two or three yards. Then the man pulled the Comet away and leaned it against the rocks.