He dragged
out a dead puppy, laid it at his master's feet, and before he could be
restrained had once more dashed back into the stifling smoke. Again he
appeared, this time weak and staggering, every trace of his white coat
gone. He was singed and blackened beyond recognition; but he was a
four-footed hero, who had nobly performed a self-imposed duty. As he
feebly dragged another little dead puppy to his master's feet, Billy
Brackett seized the brave dog in his arms, and sprang over the side of
the doomed steamboat into the waiting skiff. Tears stood in the young
man's eyes as the suffering creature licked his face, and he exclaimed,
"I tell you what, Winn Caspar, if this blessed dog isn't possessed of a
soul, then I'm not, that's all!"
Meanwhile Winn was pulling the skiff swiftly beyond reach of danger.
It was none too soon; for before they reached the raft, the glowing
mass behind them reared itself on end as though making a frantic effort
to escape its fate. Then, with a hissing plunge, it disappeared
beneath the turbid flood of the great river. A second later there came
a muffled explosion, and a column of water, capped by a cloud of steam,
shot upward. At the same time the scene was shrouded in a darkness
made absolute by the sudden extinguishing of the fierce light, while
the silence that immediately succeeded the recent uproar seemed
unbroken.
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