As we have said, Crusoe was meek and mild.  He had been bitten, on the sly, by half the ill-natured curs in the settlement, and had only shown his teeth in return.  He had no enmities—­though several enemies—­and he had a thousand friends, particularly among the ranks of the weak and the persecuted, whom he always protected and avenged when opportunity offered.  A single instance of this kind will serve to show his character.

One day Dick and Crusoe were sitting on a rock beside the lake—­the same identical rock near which, when a pup, the latter had received his first lesson.  They were conversing as usual, for Dick had elicited such a fund of intelligence from the dog’s mind, and had injected such wealth of wisdom into it, that he felt convinced it understood every word he said.

“This is capital weather, Crusoe; ain’t it, pup?”

Crusoe made a motion with his head which was quite as significant as a nod.

“Ha! my pup, I wish that you and I might go and have a slap at the grizzly bars, and a look at the Rocky Mountains.  Wouldn’t it be nuts, pup?”

Crusoe looked dubious.

“What, you don’t agree with me!  Now tell me, pup, wouldn’t ye like to grip a bar?”

Still Crusoe looked dubious, but made a gentle motion with his tail, as though he would have said, “I’ve seen neither Rocky Mountains nor grizzly bars, and know nothin’ about ’em, but I’m open to conviction.”

“You’re a brave pup,” rejoined Dick, stroking the dog’s huge head affectionately.  “I wouldn’t give you for ten times your weight in golden dollars—­if there be sich things.”

Crusoe made no reply whatever to this.  He regarded it as a truism unworthy of notice; he evidently felt that a comparison between love and dollars was preposterous.

At this point in the conversation a little dog with a lame leg hobbled to the edge of the rocks in front of the spot where Dick was seated, and looked down into the water, which was deep there.  Whether it did so for the purpose of admiring its very plain visage in the liquid mirror, or finding out what was going on among the fish, we cannot say, as it never told us; but at that moment a big, clumsy, savage-looking dog rushed out from the neighbouring thicket and began to worry it.

“Punish him, Crusoe,” said Dick quickly.

Crusoe made one bound that a lion might have been proud of, and seizing the aggressor by the back, lifted him off his legs and held him, howling, in the air—­at the same time casting a look towards his master for further instructions.

“Pitch him in,” said Dick, making a sign with his hand.

Crusoe turned and quietly dropped the dog into the lake.  Having regarded his struggles there for a few moments with grave severity of countenance, he walked slowly back and sat down beside his master.

The little dog made good its retreat as fast as three legs would carry it; and the surly dog, having swum ashore, retired sulkily, with his tail very much between his legs.