A shout of unanimous approval went up. Two of the boys ran to Mr. Hartshorn's car for the books, and another brought a lighted lantern and placed it on a box at his elbow. Then they grouped themselves about the fire again and listened with absorbed attention while he read them two of the best short dog stories in his collection—"The Bar Sinister," by Richard Harding Davis, and "Stikeen" by John Muir.
"My! Aren't those fine!" exclaimed Ernest Whipple.
"Haven't you any more?" begged Elliot Garfield.
"No," said Mr. Hartshorn, "I'm sorry to say I haven't any more with me, but I shall be glad to lend my books to any of you boys who will promise to return them. They are very precious. I'd like nothing better than to introduce you to the dogs of literature. They're a great lot."
Then he proceeded to tell them something of the best known of these books—"Bob, Son of Battle," Ouida's "A Dog of Flanders," Jack London's stories, and a number of others.
"But I think," he concluded, "that the one I like best of all is the true story of a little Skye terrier named Greyfriars Bobby, one of the most faithful dogs that ever lived."
"Oh, please tell us about him," begged Frank Stoddard.
"No," said Mr. Hartshorn, "I would only spoil the story. You must read the book for yourselves. It will give you something to do next winter when you can't go camping out, and I can promise you a rare treat."
The next morning Mr. Hartshorn was obliged to leave, and everyone was up bright and early to see him off. He thanked them all for one of the jolliest week-ends he had ever spent, and promised to invite them to a campfire of reminiscence at Willowdale sometime. Then he got into his car and started the motor.
I presume he had never taken part in so boisterous a departure. The rough woods road was difficult enough to drive in at best, and the boys and dogs crowded about the car, shouting and barking their farewells. In spite of all Alfred and Horace could do, some of the more venturesome jumped upon the running boards and rode a little way, while the dogs, catching the spirit of excitement, dashed about in front and everywhere. Alfred and Horace rushed in to quiet the confusion, but before they could get the boys and dogs in hand a sharp yelp of pain sounded and poor old Rags lay, a helpless, pathetic figure, in the wheel rut behind the car.