This was done a second time, and Crusoe came forward with the mitten in his mouth.  It seemed as if it had been done accidentally, for he dropped it before coming quite up.  If so, it was a fortunate accident, for it served as the tiny fulcrum on which to place the point of that mighty lever which was destined ere long to raise him to the pinnacle of canine erudition.  Dick Varley immediately lavished upon him the tenderest caresses and gave him a lump of meat.  But he quickly tried it again lest he should lose the lesson.  The dog evidently felt that if he did not fetch that mitten he should have no meat or caresses.  In order, however, to make sure that there was no mistake, Dick laid the mitten down beside the pup, instead of putting it into his mouth, and, retiring a few paces, cried, “Fetch it.”

Crusoe looked uncertain for a moment, then he picked up the mitten and laid it at his master’s feet.  The lesson was learned at last!  Dick Varley tumbled all the meat out of his pocket on the ground, and, while Crusoe made a hearty breakfast, he sat down on a rock and whistled with glee at having fairly picked the lock, and opened another door into one of the many chambers of his dog’s intellect.

CHAPTER IV.

Our hero enlarged upon—­Grumps.

Two years passed away.  The Mustang Valley settlement advanced prosperously, despite one or two attacks made upon it by the savages, who were, however, firmly repelled.  Dick Varley had now become a man, and his pup Crusoe had become a full-grown dog.  The “silver rifle,” as Dick’s weapon had come to be named, was well known among the hunters and the Redskins of the border-lands, and in Dick’s hands its bullets were as deadly as its owner’s eye was quick and true.

Crusoe’s education, too, had been completed.  Faithfully and patiently had his young master trained his mind, until he fitted him to be a meet companion in the hunt.  To “carry” and “fetch” were now but trifling portions of the dog’s accomplishments.  He could dive a fathom deep in the lake and bring up any article that might have been dropped or thrown in.  His swimming powers were marvellous, and so powerful were his muscles that he seemed to spurn the water while passing through it, with his broad chest high out of the curling wave, at a speed that neither man nor beast could keep up with for a moment.  His intellect now was sharp and quick as a needle; he never required a second bidding.  When Dick went out hunting, he used frequently to drop a mitten or a powder-horn unknown to the dog, and after walking miles away from it, would stop short and look down into the mild, gentle face of his companion.

“Crusoe,” he said, in the same quiet tones with which he would have addressed a human friend, “I’ve dropped my mitten; go fetch it, pup.”  Dick continued to call it “pup” from habit.