stranger instead of upon them, barked again and came on steadily, as if
to attack the stranger.

"Down, down!" cried Nic; and they stopped.

"It's all right now; they shan't fight. Here, I'll show you. You ketch
hold of this, sir."

Samson took an old pitchfork from where it stood in a corner, handed it
to Nic, and then, somewhat to the boy's dismay, took hold of the big
dog's collar with both hands, and set it free by dragging the strap over
its ears.

Then for a moment there were threatenings of a fight, but a shout from
Samson checked the turbulent spirit.

"Give Nib a rap over the head with that fork shaft if he don't mind you,
sir. He's hard as iron, so you may hit sharp. Couldn't break you, Nib,
eh?"

The dog looked up and uttered a short bark. "Here, Master Nic,"
whispered the old man with a grin: "go closely to him and say sharply,
`Kangaroo!'"

Nic did as he was told, and the dog gave a tremendous bound and stood
looking wildly round, ending by running back with a deep-toned bark,
looking up at him as much as to say, "Where?"

"Gone, Nib!" cried Samson. "Now follow the young master, and he'll give
you some breakfast."

The little old fellow led the way, Nic followed, and the three dogs came
behind, Nibbler with a collie on either side, keeping up a low muttering
growl, which sounded like threats of what they would do if the big dog
interfered with their master. To which Nibbler responded by some
language of his own, and leering looks to either side, as if in search
of spots where there was not so much hair when he began to nibble.

Samson stopped at the far end of the farthest shed, where there was a
little lean-to; and on raising a wooden latch and throwing open the
door, there within hung half a sheep, with the skin on a peg, and a
chopping-block and a hatchet in the middle.

"Slaughterhouse, sir," said Samson, with a grin. "'Bliged to be our own
butchers out here,--fishermen too. S'pose you'll ketch our fish now?
Mind chopping off some o' that sheep while I hold it on the block?"

"I? No," said Nic.

"That's your sort!" said the man, lifting the half sheep from a hook
fastened in the beam overhead. "Emmygrunts does anything. I want you
to chop off that lyne, and then cut it in three bits for the dogs."

"Then you don't only give them bones?" said Nic.

"Gives dogs what we've got plenty on. It's mutton now. We don't want
this to spyle. It was alive and well yes'day, but a cou