"I never knew Chubbie make friends like that before," Josephine exclaimed. She looked in fresh curiosity upon the wholesome face with the regular features, rather stern in repose, but now softened by a smile. "It must be because he helped us pull you out. We couldn't have done it without him. That makes you belong to him, in a way." Zeke stared at the dog, with new respect. "The darned son of a gun!" he ejaculated, gravely. "I reckon," he continued after a meditative pause, "the little cuss felt like he owed me somethin' fer sp'ilin' my jeans. That crack I gin him put the fear o' God into his bosom, so to speak. 'The more ye beat 'em, the better they be.'" Josephine started at his words. Without a hat, the dark curls had given a look so different to the face that, until now, she had not recognized the man of the ferry-boat. "Why," she cried, "you are the one!" She turned to the bewildered Florence. Her blue eyes were flashing; her voice was hard. "He's the creature that almost killed Chubbie. And to think we troubled to save him!" "That hell-fired pup o' your'n took a holt on me first," Zeke protested wrathfully, forgetful of his reconciliation with the dog. Then, a plaintive whine recalled him. He smiled whimsically, as he patted the bull-terrier's head, which was lifted toward him fondly. The anger died out of his face, and he smiled. "I've hearn these-hyar dumb critters git things 'bout right by instinct, somehow. Yer dawg's done fergive me. Won't you-all, mum?" Josephine hesitated. The ingenuous appeal touched her. Only pride held her from yielding. "An', besides," Zeke went on, "ye was a-sayin' as how the dawg kind o' felt I belonged to him like, bein' he he'ped pull me out o' the ocean, an' so he had to like me. Thet-thar argyment goes fer you-all, too, mum. So, I 'low ye gotter fergive me--specially kase yer dawg begun hit."