have any moral sense, doesn’t it?” (There was a sound now, just the faintest sound in the world! Roy and Dick both plunged desperately into conversation.)
“Dogs are funny things, anyway—” began Dick.
“I used to know a dog that looked just like Carlo,” Roy declared with enthusiasm. “He was the knowingest thing—”
“Wasn’t he?” asked Dick, loudly and eagerly.
“Why, that dog knew more than any farmer I ever met!” almost shouted Roy. “Just to show you how knowing he was, Mr. Ewing—!”
Then Roy stopped with a grin on his face and he and Dick looked past the farmer until that worthy’s curiosity got the better of him and he turned likewise, turned to look into the twin muzzles of Chub’s shot-gun, which the owner, damp and cheerful in his scant attire, held a yard from the farmer’s head.
Mr. Ewing’s jaw dropped comically.
“Wh-wh-what—” he stammered.
“Kindly lean your gun against the railing, Mr. Ewing,” said Chub, softly. “Thank you. Now get down and jump ashore, please.”
