“Will you look at Bones?”

We looked.  Bones had entered the church and gone up in the gallery through a pardonable ignorance and modesty; but, perceiving his mistake, was now calmly walking along the gallery rail before the astounded worshipers.  Reaching the end, he paused for a moment, and carelessly looked down.  It was about fifteen feet to the floor below—­the simplest jump in the world for the mountain-bred Bones.  Daintily, gingerly, lazily, and yet with a conceited airiness of manner, as if, humanly speaking, he had one leg in his pocket and were doing it on three, he cleared the distance, dropping just in front of the chancel, without a sound, turned himself around three times, and then lay comfortably down.

Three deacons were instantly in the aisle, coming up before the eminent divine, who, we fancied, wore a restrained smile.  We heard the hurried whispers:  “Belongs to them.”  “Quite a local institution here, you know.”  “Don’t like to offend sensibilities;” and the minister’s prompt “By no means,” as he went on with his service.

A short month ago we would have repudiated Bones; today we sat there in slightly supercilious attitudes, as if to indicate that any affront offered to Bones would be an insult to ourselves, and followed by our instantaneous withdrawal in a body.

All went well, however, until the minister, lifting the large Bible from the communion table and holding it in both hands before him, walked toward a reading stand by the altar rails.  Bones uttered a distinct growl.  The minister stopped.

We, and we alone, comprehended in a flash the whole situation.  The Bible was nearly the size and shape of one of those soft clods of sod which we were in the playful habit of launching at Bones when he lay half-asleep in the sun, in order to see him cleverly evade it.

We held our breath.  What was to be done?  But the opportunity belonged to our leader, Jeff Briggs—­a confoundedly good-looking fellow, with the golden mustache of a northern viking and the curls of an Apollo.  Secure in his beauty and bland in his self-conceit, he rose from the pew, and stepped before the chancel rails.

“I would wait a moment, if I were you, sir,” he said, respectfully, “and you will see that he will go out quietly.”

“What is wrong?” whispered the minister in some concern.

“He thinks you are going to heave that book at him, sir, without giving him a fair show, as we do.”

The minister looked perplexed, but remained motionless, with the book in his hands.  Bones arose, walked halfway down the aisle, and vanished like a yellow flash!

With this justification of his reputation, Bones disappeared for a week.  At the end of that time we received a polite note from Judge Preston, saying that the dog had become quite domiciled in their house, and begged that the camp, without yielding up their valuable property in him, would allow him to remain at Spring Valley for an indefinite time; that both the judge and his daughter—­with whom Bones was already an old friend—­would be glad if the members of the camp would visit their old favorite whenever they desired, to assure themselves that he was well cared for.