something in his strong jaws, while Beeby, who had arisen from a sprawling position on the deck, was crying out:
"Here, Grit, old fellow, give it to me! That's a good dog! Don't smash it, now! Come on, old fellow. I didn't mean you any harm; honest, I didn't!"
Grit only growled the harder, and shook more vigorously the object he held.
"What's he got?" asked Dick.
"My camera," replied the fleshy lad. "I was taking a snapshot of him, sitting alone—the first chance I had at him—but when he heard the shutter click, I guess he must have imagined I was trying to poison him. He made a jump for me, and"
"Did he bite you?" asked the young millionaire, anxiously.
"No, he only grabbed the camera away from me, and now he's trying to make splinters of it. Drop it, Grit, I say!"
But the bulldog, growling and snarling, never heeded.
"Here, Grit!" called Dick in a low voice. "Bring it here!" The dog obeyed instantly, and the camera, rather the worse for wear, as Paul said, was laid on the deck.
"Here it is—guess it isn't hurt much," observed Dick. "If it is, I'll get you a new one, Beeby, and you can sell that to Henry Darby, for old scrap iron and leather."
