"Clear out!" repeated Brown, advancing threateningly. With each step of
the advance, Job retreated a corresponding distance. When the assistant
stopped, he stopped. Brown lowered the shovel and looked at him. The dog
grovelled in the sand and whined dolefully.

"Humph!" grunted the young man; "I guess you're not as dangerous as you
look. Stay where you are and keep still."

He turned to enter the kitchen, turning again just in time to find the
pup at his heels. He lifted the shovel, and Job jumped frantically out
of reach, sat down in a clump of beach grass, lifted his nose to the sky
and expressed his feelings in a howl of utter misery.

"Good--heavens!" observed John Brown fervently, and, shifting the shovel
to his left hand, rubbed his forehead with his right. Job howled once
more and gazed at him with sorrowful appeal. The situation was so
ridiculous that the young man began to laugh. This merriment appeared to
encourage the pup, who stopped howling and began to caper, throwing the
loose sand from beneath his paws in showers.

"What's the matter, old boy?" inquired Brown. "Lonesome, are you?"

Job was making himself the center of a small-sized sand spout.

"Humph! Well . . . well, all right. I'm not going to hurt you. Stay
where you are, and I won't shut the door."

But this compromise was not satisfactory, because the moment the young
man started to cross the threshold the dog started to follow. When Brown
halted, he followed suit--and howled. Then the substitute assistant