who were, however, firmly repelled. Dick Varley had now become a man,
and his pup Crusoe had become a full-grown dog. The "silver rifle," as
Dick's weapon had come to be named, was well known among the hunters
and the Redskins of the border-lands, and in Dick's hands its bullets
were as deadly as its owner's eye was quick and true.

Crusoe's education, too, had been completed. Faithfully and patiently
had his young master trained his mind, until he fitted him to be
a meet companion in the hunt. To "carry" and "fetch" were now but
trifling portions of the dog's accomplishments. He could dive a fathom
deep in the lake and bring up any article that might have been dropped
or thrown in. His swimming powers were marvellous, and so powerful
were his muscles that he seemed to spurn the water while passing
through it, with his broad chest high out of the curling wave, at a
speed that neither man nor beast could keep up with for a moment. His
intellect now was sharp and quick as a needle; he never required a
second bidding. When Dick went out hunting, he used frequently to drop
a mitten or a powder-horn unknown to the dog, and after walking miles
away from it, would stop short and look down into the mild, gentle
face of his companion.

"Crusoe," he said, in the same quiet tones with which he would have
addressed a human friend, "I've dropped my mitten; go fetch it, pup."
Dick continued to call it "pup" from habit.

One glance of intelligence passed from Crusoe's eye, and in a moment
he was away at full gallop, nor did he rest until the lost article was
lying at his master's feet. Dick was loath to try how far back on his
track Crusoe would run if desired. He had often gone back five and six
miles at a stretch; but his powers did not stop here. He could carry