There was no time to rise. Towser, growling angrily, was upon
him with a bound.

Gr-r-r-r-r!

Fred, with a shriek, felt the dog's teeth in the back of his shirt.

"Get out, you beast!" begged young Ripley in a faint voice.

Gr-r-r-r! was all the answer. Plainly the dog liked the taste
of that shirt, for he held to it tight.

"Get away---please do!" faltered Fred in a broken voice. "Get
away. Don't bite. Nice doggie! Nice, nice doggie! Please let
go!"

Gr-r-r-r-r!

But Towser didn't attempt to bite as yet. For a bull-dog, and
considering how fully he was master of the field at present, Towser
displayed amazing good nature. Only when young Ripley moved did
the four-footed policeman of the camp utter that warning growl.

"Nice doggie!" coaxed Fred pleadingly. "Good old fellow!"

To this bit of rank flattery Towser offered no reply. It began
to look as though he would be quite satisfied if only his captive
made no effort to get away.