own. He undertook modest little excursions into the woods or along the
margin of the lake, sometimes alone, but more frequently with a little
friend whose whole heart and being seemed to be swallowed up in
admiration of his big companion. Whether Crusoe botanized or
geologized on these excursions we will not venture to say. Assuredly
he seemed as though he did both, for he poked his nose into every bush
and tuft of moss, and turned over the stones, and dug holes in the
ground--and, in short, if he did not understand these sciences, he
behaved very much as if he did. Certainly he knew as much about them
as many of the human species do.

In these walks he never took the slightest notice of Grumps (that
was the little dog's name), but Grumps made up for this by taking
excessive notice of him. When Crusoe stopped, Grumps stopped and sat
down to look at him. When Crusoe trotted on, Grumps trotted on too.
When Crusoe examined a bush, Grumps sat down to watch him; and when he
dug a hole, Grumps looked into it to see what was there. Grumps never
helped him; his sole delight was in looking on. They didn't converse
much, these two dogs. To be in each other's company seemed to be
happiness enough--at least Grumps thought so.

There was one point at which Grumps stopped short, however, and ceased
to follow his friend, and that was when he rushed headlong into the
lake and disported himself for an hour at a time in its cool waters.
Crusoe was, both by nature and training, a splendid water-dog. Grumps,
on the contrary, held water in abhorrence; so he sat on the shore of
the lake disconsolate when his friend was bathing, and waited till he
came out. The only time when Grumps was thoroughly nonplussed was when
Dick Varley's whistle sounded faintly in the far distance. Then Crusoe
would prick up his ears and stretch out at full gallop, clearing