The canoe was moored, and while trying to restrain Nig’s dripping caresses, his master looked up, and saw something queer off there, above the tops of the cottonwoods.  As he looked he forgot the dog—­forgot everything in earth or heaven except that narrow cloud wavering along the sky.  He sat immovable in the round-shouldered attitude learned in pulling a hand-sled against a gale from the Pole.  If you are moderately excited you may start, but there is an excitement that “nails you.”

Nig shook his wolf’s coat and sprayed the water far and wide, made little joyful noises, and licked the face that was so still.  But his master, like a man of stone, stared at that long gray pennon in the sky.  If it isn’t a steamer, what is it?  Like an echo out of some lesson he had learned and long forgot, “Up-bound boats don’t run the channel:  they have to hunt for easy water.”  Suddenly he leaped up.  The canoe tipped, and Nig went a second time into the water.  Well for him that they were near the shore; he could jump in without help this time.  No hand held out, no eye for him.  His master had dragged the painter free, seized the oars, and, saying harshly, “Lie down, you black devil!” he pulled back against the current with every ounce he had in him.  For the gray pennon was going round the other side of the island, and the Boy was losing the boat to Dawson.

Nig sat perkily in the bow, never budging till his master, running into the head of the island, caught up a handful of tough root fringes, and, holding fast by them, waved his cap, and shouted like one possessed, let go the fringes, caught up his gun, and fired.  Then Nig, realising that for once in a way noise seemed to be popular, pointed his nose at the big object hugging the farther shore, and howled with a right goodwill.

“They see!  They see!  Hooray!”

The Boy waved his arms, embraced Nig, then snatched up the oars.  The steamer’s engines were reversed; now she was still.  The Boy pulled lustily.  A crowded ship.  Crew and passengers pressed to the rails.  The steamer canted, and the Captain’s orders rang out clear.  Several cheechalkos laid their hands on their guns as the wild fellow in the ragged buckskins shot round the motionless wheel, and brought his canoe ’long-side, while his savage-looking dog still kept the echoes of the Lower Ramparts calling.

“Three cheers for the Oklahoma!”

At the sound of the Boy’s voice a red face hanging over the stern broke into a broad grin.

“Be the Siven!  Air ye the little divvle himself, or air ye the divvle’s gran’fatherr?”

The apparition in the canoe was making fast and preparing to board the ship.

“Can’t take another passenger.  Full up!” said the Captain.  He couldn’t hear what was said in reply, but he shook his head.  “Been refusin’ ’em right along.”  Then, as if reproached by the look in the wild young face, “We thought you were in trouble.”