The Dog Crusoe and His Master | Page 4

laughed, he
let it out, as sailors have it, "with a will." When there was good cause to
be grave, no power on earth could make him smile. We have called him
boy, but in truth he was about that uncertain period of life when a youth
is said to be neither a man nor a boy. His face was good-looking (every
earnest, candid face is) and masculine; his hair was reddish-brown and

his eye bright-blue. He was costumed in the deerskin cap, leggings,
moccasins, and leathern shirt common to the western hunter. "You
seem tickled wi' the Injuns, Dick Varley," said a man who at that
moment issued from the blockhouse.
"That's just what I am, Joe Blunt," replied the youth, turning with a
broad grin to his companion.
"Have a care, lad; do not laugh at 'em too much. They soon take
offence; an' them Redskins never forgive."
"But I'm only laughing at the baby," returned the youth, pointing to the
child, which, with a mixture of boldness and timidity, was playing with
a pup, wrinkling up its fat visage into a smile when its playmate rushed
away in sport, and opening wide its jet-black eyes in grave anxiety as
the pup returned at full gallop.
"It 'ud make an owl laugh," continued young Varley, "to see such a
queer pictur' o' itself."
He paused suddenly, and a dark frown covered his face as he saw the
Indian woman stoop quickly down, catch the pup by its hind-leg with
one hand, seize a heavy piece of wood with the other, and strike it
several violent blows on the throat. Without taking the trouble to kill
the poor animal outright, the savage then held its still writhing body
over the fire in order to singe off the hair before putting it into the pot
to be cooked.
The cruel act drew young Varley's attention more closely to the pup,
and it flashed across his mind that this could be no other than young
Crusoe, which neither he nor his companion had before seen, although
they had often heard others speak of and describe it.
Had the little creature been one of the unfortunate Indian curs, the two
hunters would probably have turned from the sickening sight with
disgust, feeling that, however much they might dislike such cruelty, it
would be of no use attempting to interfere with Indian usages. But the
instant the idea that it was Crusoe occurred to Varley he uttered a yell

of anger, and sprang towards the woman with a bound that caused the
three Indians to leap to their feet and grasp their tomahawks.
Blunt did not move from the gate, but threw forward his rifle with a
careless motion, but an expressive glance, that caused the Indians to
resume their seats and pipes with an emphatic "Wah!" of disgust at
having been startled out of their propriety by a trifle; while Dick Varley
snatched poor Crusoe from his dangerous and painful position, scowled
angrily in the woman's face, and turning on his heel, walked up to the
house, holding the pup tenderly in his arms.
Joe Blunt gazed after his friend with a grave, solemn expression of
countenance till he disappeared; then he looked at the ground, and
shook his head.
Joe was one of the regular out-and-out backwoods hunters, both in
appearance and in fact--broad, tall, massive, lion-like; gifted with the
hunting, stalking, running, and trail-following powers of the savage,
and with a superabundance of the shooting and fighting powers, the
daring, and dash of the Anglo-Saxon. He was grave, too--seldom
smiled, and rarely laughed. His expression almost at all times was a
compound of seriousness and good-humour. With the rifle he was a
good, steady shot, but by no means a "crack" one. His ball never failed
to hit, but it often failed to kill.
After meditating a few seconds, Joe Blunt again shook his head, and
muttered to himself, "The boy's bold enough, but he's too reckless for a
hunter. There was no need for that yell, now--none at all."
Having uttered this sagacious remark, he threw his rifle into the hollow
of his left arm, turned round, and strode off with a long, slow step
towards his own cottage.
Blunt was an American by birth, but of Irish extraction, and to an
attentive ear there was a faint echo of the brogue in his tone, which
seemed to have been handed down to him as a threadbare and almost
worn-out heirloom.

Poor Crusoe was singed almost naked. His wretched tail seemed little
better than a piece of wire filed off to a point, and he vented his misery
in piteous squeaks as the sympathetic Varley confided him tenderly to
the care of his mother. How Fan managed to cure him no one