"What do you s'pose that is?" asked Whitey, pointing at the speck.

"Dog," Injun answered briefly.

"A dog!" cried Whitey, who, though he had never ceased to wonder at
Injun's keenness of sight, was inclined to question it now. "What can a
dog be doing out there?"

"Dunno," Injun replied. "Him dog." Injun's education had not as yet sunk
in deep enough to affect his speech.

Whitey again turned his eyes toward the object, which certainly was
moving slowly, as though tired, and, as the boys watched, sure enough,
began to resolve itself into the shape of a dog. Here at last was
something happening to break the dullness of the day. A strange dog
twenty-five miles from any place in which a dog would naturally be.

Furthermore, when the animal was near enough to be seen distinctly, he
furnished another surprise. He was entirely unlike any of the dogs of
that neighborhood--the hounds, collies, or terriers. He was white,
short, chunky. His head was very large for his size, his jaw undershot,
his mouth enormous, and his lower lip drooped carelessly over a couple
of fangs on each side. Under small ears his eyes popped almost out of
his head, and his snub nose could scarcely be said to be a nose at all.
From a wide chest his body narrowed until it joined a short, twisted
tail, and his front legs were bowed, as though he had been in the habit
of riding a horse all his life.

Injun gazed at this strange being with something as near surprise as he
ever allowed himself. "Him look like frog," he declared.