Bob had now rounded into a fine, strong dog, pleasing in manners and respectable in appearance. At the time of his rescue from the barn by Ned and Hal he was in his hobbledehoy period—in dogs, as in boys, that awkward, sappy state betwixt puppyhood and eye-teethhood. Out of this he had grown up, under the good food and kind treatment of the Miller household, into a dog who was a credit to the family.

He was rather larger than a pointer should be, with a head unusually wide and full, a sign of great intelligence. His nose was a bit blunt; and this, and his head, and his stubbornness, caused critics to hold that somewhere in his ancestry was a strain of bulldog blood.

His ears were thin and long and velvety, drooping below his chops; his lips were loose and swaying, and the skin of his neck was loose and wrinkly. His eyes were a beautiful, faithful brown. His coat was a rich mahogany, and was even and glossy. He had a magnificent chest—broad, massive, with a bone that jutted out like that of a turkey gobbler. Behind it was a barrel of a body, which all of Mrs. Miller’s stuffing never could make else but lean; while his ribs narrowed away until at his flanks they ended in a sad hollow.

In truth, Bob’s front half was much superior to his rear half, which ran off into a short, stubby tail tipped with a warty knob. Whether some accident had happened, to blight this tail in Bob’s infancy, or whether his mother’s family had been so unexpectedly large that there had not been material enough for finishing Bob completely, no one could say. At any rate, he was not fitted with a tail such as a dog of his size and breed should have, and he was always more or less conscious of the fact.

Reference has been made to Bob’s grin. When he was tickled over anything his whole upper lip curled back, exposing a row of shining white teeth and brilliant red gums. Thus, grinning at one end and wagging at the other, he tried to show his pleasure. However, it was not a becoming face that he made when he grinned, and many people, not used to his oddity, mistook it for a snarl, and were afraid. As soon as they came to know him, they understood what a good-natured fellow he was.

Indeed, a more good-natured dog never lived. Also, never lived a dog queerer and more human. No one made his acquaintance but to like him, and he was suffered to do things that would have earned rebuke for any dog but him.

When Ned was absent at school, sometimes Bob would become lonely, and would start out to find his master. In manner unknown—but through his nose, or ears, or eyes—he had discovered the room in which Ned was caged during school hours, and there, in his quest, he would betake himself.

If the door was open, in he would saunter, and sniff down the aisle; and perhaps the first hint to Ned of Bob’s presence would be that sturdy head laid, amid titters, upon his knee.

As a rule Ned was asked by the teacher to escort Bob to the door again. But occasionally Mr. Bob would choose, rather, to climb into an empty seat, and there, by quietly curling for sleep, make amends for his intrusion. In this case he was allowed to remain, and the room speedily forgot that he was there.

At the stroke of the bell, Bob always promptly arose and trotted out.

Whether or not he learned anything of mathematics or physiology or grammar during his snooze may be a mooted question; but Ned and friends claimed that he did.

When it happened that Bob did not find Ned’s seat occupied, he hopped into it, and there sat bolt upright, as if to fill the vacancy, until Ned returned. Once in a while he would refuse to get out—and then would be hauled down by the collar, and led in disgrace to the door.

With all the wisdom got in school, nevertheless Bob did many foolish tricks. For instance, he should have known better than to bury pancakes in the fall, expecting to dig them up and eat them in the winter! When the pancakes were buried, they and the ground were soft together; but when they were sought again, a month or so later, they came up—if at all—in flinty shreds scarcely to be told from the dirt. Yet Bob seemed not to foresee this; and even during winter thaws he persisted in scratching small holes and placing in them buckwheat cakes, for use in the future!

He so loved to bury things that his nose was nearly always crowned with a little ridge of soil. Once he brought home a five-pound roast of beef, which a neighbor had got at the butcher’s with intent to have it for dinner. Bob buried it in the garden, and for a week and more regularly uncovered it, took a few delicious gnaws, and covered it up again.

Ned was obliged to find the neighbor another roast.

Bob was a dog not easily convinced. This is a polite way of putting it, for the trait was neither more nor less than downright stubbornness. When he would not do a thing, he wouldn’t, until at last persuaded by kind words, or hope of reward, or fear of punishment.

Ned found that patience and gentle argument were better than blows, to make Bob yield, so threshings were dropped from the list of “persuaders.” Bob had a keen sense of shame, and the tone of the voice could make him feel worse than the hardest licking.

His stubbornness was twice very nearly his death. The first time, he was simply bound not to budge one inch from the way of a heavy farm wagon. He lay flat in the road, and waited for the wagon to turn out for him. But the wagon kept upon its route, and Bob, still sticking to his position, did nothing but howl his protests as the wheels passed over his back.

His bones being soft, he arose unhurt, and stalked off in the sulks.

The second time had as a scene the approach to the high trestle bridging a slough just beyond the farther end of the river bridge. Ned and Bob had been for a walk, and upon the return Bob had refused to walk the trestle. According to his custom he flopped down, like a spoiled child, on the spot.

Ned went ahead, hoping that at last Bob would arise and follow. He had gone a short distance, leaving Bob sprawled on the gravel in the middle of the railroad track, when suddenly he heard the rumble of a train, nearing from behind.

“Bob! Here, Bob! Here, Bob!” he called, running back.

But Bob dumbly declined.

“Get up! Bob! Get up!” cried Ned.

Bob, with his master coming from one way and the train coming from the other, stayed on his spot, deaf to the appeals of the former and the warnings of the latter.

The engine reached him first. Ned, horrified, saw him hurled into the air, up, up, twenty feet, his legs dangling and his ears flopping. Turning slow somersaults down he came, clear of the trestle, into the depths below. Ned caught a glimpse of the engineer and fireman looking back from the cab and laughing, which made him mad.

The first freeze of the fall had covered the slough with an inch of ice. Down dropped Bob, as swiftly as though he were from the dog-star, and lit squarely, in a sitting position, on a shallow place.

The sound of a shrill yelp floated up to Ned, leaning over to gaze. Bob bounced to his feet, and leaving the outlines of his hind parts, with a hole marking where his tail had bored, across the slough he fled, his ki-yi’s drifting behind him, fainter and fainter.

After much whistling Ned found him again, hiding in the woods. In body Bob was uninjured, but his feelings had been hurt; and for some time he could not be made to believe but that a mean trick had been played upon him by Ned and the train.

Finally he allowed himself to be coaxed upon the trestle, and with whimper and trembling, with tail between his legs and with many a backward glance, he made the journey across.

Thereafter he took the trestle in a hurry, without a sign of hesitation. He had learned a lesson.

Bob’s stubbornness was not always of mischief to him. Sometimes it stood him in good stead, and above all in his fights. Now, Bob was not willingly a fighter. There were times when he would run from a dog not half his size. This lack of spirit was a cause of great vexation to Ned, who, while he would not have Bob a bully like some dogs, upon the other hand would not have him a craven and a coward.

But when cornered, or when once started, Bob was a perfect demon at a fight. The dog that picked upon him, thinking to be able to nag him without return, was likely to have a sudden rush of trouble.

Bob’s great jaws closed on him with a grip that no struggles could break. When Bob bit, he bit for keeps.

He had, in Beaufort, two particular enemies—almost the sole enemies that he knew. Both were white bulldogs; one lived down town in a drug store, and the other lived behind a picket fence, out toward the flats.

Up and down before this picket fence would race Bob, and up and down behind it would race his enemy, and between the pickets sped a thousand names and epithets, the most stinging in dog language.

These were Bob’s moments of bravery; but let the bulldog dart out at him, around a corner or through a hole, and Bob would flee for dear life, with his foe bellowing at his heels.

This state of affairs lasted for several months, until, one day, Bob was surprised and crowded against a high sidewalk, and obliged to make a stand. The bulldog, after worrying him for a short space, on a sudden found himself matched against a very angry lion. Bob’s temper was roused. He outweighed the bulldog, he outdid him in strength and agility, and that canine had a sorry time before the people who gathered could force Bob’s teeth to unclose from a certain white fore-leg. As for Bob, the loose skin about his throat had been all that the bulldog could seize.

This bulldog’s day as an ogre was over. Henceforth he was a wiser and more humble animal.

The drug store dog learned a like lesson in a like way. One evening he cornered Bob in between some dry goods boxes, and set about to have fun out of him. The “fun” ended with Ned dancing around in dismay, while a policeman, by the aid of lighted matches and the handle of his club, induced Bob to let go! Then the bulldog’s owner, crestfallen and wrathful, carried his fallen champion home in his arms.

Bob proudly trotted on his way, licking his bloody chops. His enemy was retired for a week, and came forth again more discreet, and smelling of arnica.

Yet, with all his victories, Bob never went around with a chip on his shoulder. He much preferred peace to war.

Bob’s greatest gift was swimming. The pointer family is supposed not to like the water, especially, save as a relief from the heat; but be it hot or cold, Bob was ever ready for a plunge. His favorite fun was to get out in the middle of the river, where the current was deepest and swiftest, and swim up stream. He would do this with no object, it seemed, except showing off his powers in the water.

Ah, what a grand swimmer Bob was! With his splendid fore-shoulders high and dry above the surface, and his mighty chest throwing the waters aside in a rolling wave, he would plough his path, regardless of the distance, to the goal. If permitted, he would swim for hours at a time—aimlessly paddling hither and thither, chasing stray bits of wood and even bubbles.

He would make a pretense at diving, but this consisted simply in sticking his head under, and withdraw it in a instant, coughing, and shaking the water out of his ears.

Had he not been gun-shy he would have been an ideal retriever for ducks. Indeed, Ned taught him to retrieve sticks and balls, and other things thrown for the purpose; and whether or not Bob had seen them drop, by ranging in circles he always found them and laid them at his master’s feet.

Ned also taught him to “charge.” Bob would stay crouched against the walk or road until Ned or Mr. Miller had gone on for a block, perhaps; his eyes would be shining with eagerness, and his body fairly quivering with excitement.

“Come on, Bob,” would sound the whistle.

One note was enough. Up would he leap, and like a cannon-ball down would he streak, yapping with glee at every jump. He never grew tired of this game.

He would mind Ned or Mr. Miller—but upon Mrs. Miller or Maggie, the girl, he used to impose dreadfully. Let them try to stir him from the space that he had chosen before the kitchen or dining-room stove, and he would give a growl so gruff as to frighten them into the distance again. They would not catch the chuckle under the growl. However, he never tried to fool Ned or Ned’s father. When they said “Get up,” Bob got!

If he decided to accompany Mrs. Miller or Maggie, he always managed to do it. They might send him back, as they supposed, a dozen times; he only made a short circuit, and sneaking along behind fences and sidewalks would come out upon them, and grin. In spite of their scolding, and the stones and sticks that they tried to throw at him, he persevered, and had his way.

He did not bamboozle the two other members of the family. It was only the women upon whom he played tricks. He knew that, with all their threats, they could not bear to hurt him.

His bedroom was the barn loft, save when, in the hottest weather, he moved down-stairs. His favorite bed was a burrow in the hay; when a fresh load arrived, Bob would dig and nose into it, until he had made a long hole extending so far back that, in his nest at the end of it, he was quite out of reach.

To Bob, Ned was the whole world. It offered no bliss that could equal the touch of Ned’s hand, and no music that might equal the sound of Ned’s voice. Just to be near Ned was joy enough for Bob, and if allowed to snuggle at his master’s side he was in ecstasy. A kind pat and an encouraging word was all the reward that he wanted, no matter how hard had been his task. Ned was at once his playmate and his king, and life held nothing more.