'
"'An' all yer common sense, tew,' says I."
A number got aboard, and the train started. Rip Enslow was on the
rear platform, his faithful hound galloping gayly behind the train.
Some one had tied him to the brake rod. Nearly a score of dogs
followed, barking merrily. Rip's hound came back soon, his tongue
low, his tail between his legs. A number called to him, but he
seemed to know his own mind perfectly, and made for the stream and
lay down in the middle of it, lapping the shallow water, and stayed
there for the rest of the afternoon.
A crowd of hunters watched him.
"Looks so he'd been ketched by a bear," said one.
In half an hour Rip returned also, a shoulder out of joint, a lump
on his forehead, a big rent in his trousers. He was one, of those
men of whom others gather wisdom, for, after that, everybody in the
land of the hills knew better than to jump off the cars or tie his
hound to the rear platform.
And dogs came to know, after a little while, that the roaring
dragon was really afraid of them and would run like a very coward
if it saw a dog coming across the fields. Every small cur that
lived in sight of it lay in the tall grass, and when he saw the
dragon coming, chased him off the farm of his master.
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