"Poor Bob, who was almost as frightened as I was, and who lay
shivering under the wagon, was killed by a shot by his own master,
whose hand was the most unsteady of all. He gave one loud howl,
kicked convulsively, then turned over on his side and lay quite
still. It sobered them all. They ran up to him, but he was quite
dead. They sat for a while quite silent, then they threw the rest of
the bottles into the lake, dug a shallow grave for Bob, and putting
me in the wagon drove slowly back to town. They were not bad
young men. I don't think they meant to hurt me, or to kill Bob. It
was the nasty stuff in the bottles that took away their reason.

"I was never the same dog again. I was quite deaf in my right ear,
and though I strove against it, I was so terribly afraid of even the
sight of a gun that I would run and hide myself whenever one was
shown to me. My master was very angry with those young men,
and it seemed as if he could not bear the sight of me. One day he
took me very kindly and brought me here, and asked Mr. Morris if
he did not want a good-natured dog to play with the children.

"I have a happy home here and I love the Morris boys; but I often
wish that I could keep from putting my tail between my legs and
running home every time I hear the sound of a gun."

"Never mind that, Jim," I said. "You should not fret over a thing
for which you are not to blame. I am sure you must be glad for one
reason that you have left your old life."

"What is that?" he said.