Dick Varley rose immediately, and rescuing the mitten, resumed his seat on a rock.

“Come here, Crusoe,” he repeated.

“Oh! certainly, by all means,” said Crusoe—­no! he didn’t exactly say it, but really he looked these words so evidently that we think it right to let them stand as they are written.  If he could have finished the sentence, he would certainly have said, “Go on with that game over again, old boy; it’s quite to my taste—­the jolliest thing in life, I assure you!” At least, if we may not positively assert that he would have said that, no one else can absolutely affirm that he wouldn’t.

Well, Dick Varley did do it over again, and Crusoe worried the mitten over again, utterly regardless of “Fetch it.”

Then they did it again, and again, and again, but without the slightest apparent advancement in the path of canine knowledge; and then they went home.

During all this trying operation Dick Varley never once betrayed the slightest feeling of irritability or impatience.  He did not expect success at first; he was not therefore disappointed at failure.

Next day he had him out again—­and the next—­and the next—­and the next again, with the like unfavourable result.  In short, it seemed at last as if Crusoe’s mind had been deeply imbued with the idea that he had been born expressly for the purpose of worrying that mitten, and he meant to fulfil his destiny to the letter.

Young Varley had taken several small pieces of meat in his pocket each day, with the intention of rewarding Crusoe when he should at length be prevailed on to fetch the mitten; but as Crusoe was not aware of the treat that awaited him, of course the mitten never was “fetched.”

At last Dick Varley saw that this system would never do, so he changed his tactics, and the next morning gave Crusoe no breakfast, but took him out at the usual hour to go through his lesson.  This new course of conduct seemed to perplex Crusoe not a little, for on his way down to the beach he paused frequently and looked back at the cottage, and then expressively up at his master’s face.  But the master was inexorable; he went on, and Crusoe followed, for true love had now taken possession of the pup’s young heart, and he preferred his master’s company to food.

Varley now began by letting the learner smell a piece of meat, which he eagerly sought to devour, but was prevented, to his immense disgust.  Then the mitten was thrown as heretofore, and Crusoe made a few steps towards it, but being in no mood for play he turned back.

“Fetch it,” said the teacher.

“I won’t,” replied the learner mutely, by means of that expressive sign—­not doing it.

Hereupon Dick Varley rose, took up the mitten, and put it into the pup’s mouth.  Then, retiring a couple of yards, he held out the piece of meat and said, “Fetch it.”

Crusoe instantly spat out the glove and bounded towards the meat—­once more to be disappointed.