“Well, I’ll try, then. I’m Mr. George Brayton, and I’m on my way to join Dr. Dryer. I’ll tell him how hard a fight you had for his cows.”
Zeb’s face lengthened a little, but he answered, quickly:
“And don’t forget Bob. Solomon doesn’t understand dogs much better than he does boys.”
“Likely as not,” exclaimed Brayton to himself, as he sprang into the stage. “Go on, driver. Now, there’s a boy worth somebody’s while to understand. Hullo! you didn’t tell me your name, after all.”
And, as the stage rolled on, Brayton heard something that sounded very much like:
“Rev. Zebedee Fuller, D. D., LL. D., etc.,” for Zeb remained behind at his duty.
The latter had no more difficulty in it. The cows had been milked, all three of them, and Zeb was glad of it, but they were in a worried and disconsolate frame of mind, and glad enough to find their peaceful heads turned homeward.
Bob had suffered very little in his combat with the yellow dog, and was now evidently conscious that he and his master had gained a very substantial kind of victory. You could see the sense of triumph expressing itself in the rigid erectness of his remaining ear, and in the unyielding pride of his stump of a tail. A very intelligent sort of dog was Bob.
As for Zeb, that young gentleman had hardly come off so well as his canine ally, for the vagabonds had been hard hitters, and every bone of his body bore witness to that fact.
His face, too, was even less of a beauty than usual, and the cast in his left eye was by no means robbed of its effect by the deep tinge of blue which was beginning to show under the right.