eef you not call avay dat dam'
dog."

True, the Minganites seemed to take a certain kind of pride in his
reputation. They had brought Chouart's big brown dog, Gripette, down
from the Sheldrake to meet him; and after the meeting was over and
Gripette had been revived with a bucket of water, everybody, except
Chouart, appeared to be in good humour. The purser of the steamer had
gone to the trouble of introducing a famous BOULE-DOGGE from Quebec,
on the trip after that on which he had given such a hostile opinion of
Pichon. The bulldog's intentions were unmistakable; he expressed them
the moment he touched the beach; and when they carried him back to the
boat on a fish-barrow many flattering words were spoken about Pichou. He
was not insensible to them. But these tributes to his prowess were not
what he really wanted. His secret desire was for tokens of affection.
His position was honourable, but it was intolerably lonely and full of
trouble. He sought peace and he found fights.

While he meditated dimly on these things, patiently trying to get the
ashes of Dan Scott's pipe out of his nose, his heart was cast down
and his spirit was disquieted within him. Was ever a decent dog so
mishandled before? Kicked for nothing by a fat stranger, and then beaten
by his own master!

In the dining-room of the Post, Grant was slowly and reluctantly
allowing himself to be convinced that his injuries were not fatal.
During this process considerable Scotch whiskey was consumed and there
was much conversation about the viciousness of dogs. Grant insisted that
Pichou was mad and had a devil. MacIntosh admitted the devil, but firmly
denied the madness. The question was, whether the dog should be killed
or not; and over this point there was like to be more bloodshed, until
Dan Scott made his contribution to the argument: "If you shoot him, how
can you tell whether he is mad or not? I'll give thirty dollars for him
and take him home."

"If you do," said Grant, "you'll sail alone, and I'll wait for the
steamer. Never a step will I go in the boat with the crazy brute that
bit me."

"Suit yourself," said Dan Scott. "You kicked before he bit."

At daybreak he whistled the dog down to the chaloupe, hoisted sail, and
bore away for Seven Islands. There was a secret bond of sympathy between
the two companions on that hundred-mile voyage in an open boat. Neither
of them realized what it was, but still it was there.

Dan Scott knew what it meant