That was the way Zeb came to miss his faithful follower, for Bob was a conscientious dog, and that bone had to be entombed at once in the deacon’s backyard.
Zeb’s spirits were rising rapidly, but, just before he reached the wide open gate of Dr. Dryer’s cow-lot, the voice of his father smote upon his ear with:
“Zebedee, my son, have you been fighting?”
“Not exactly, father,” replied Zeb; “the other fellows did the fighting. Bob and I went for the cows.”
“What will your mother say?” exclaimed the deacon, for it really required an unusual amount of hypocrisy to be hard on Zeb just then, and the deacon was no hypocrite.
“Say! Why, father, you don’t suppose she’ll take the side of those Rodney boys, do you?”
Whatever answer the deacon might have made was interrupted by the appearance of the Rev. Dr. Dryer, attended by the females of his family and by Mr. George Brayton himself.
“That’s the boy, Doctor,” said the latter. “You’d have had to get your cows out of the Rodney pound if it hadn’t been for him.”
“I only wish some person would afford me trustworthy information as to the manner of their escape from my own inclosure,” replied the doctor, solemnly.
“Are you sure you fastened the gate last night?” asked Zeb.