To "carry" and "fetch" were now but trifling portions of the dog's accomplishments.

He could dive a fathom deep in the lake and bring up any article that might have been dropped or thrown in.

His swimming powers were marvellous, and so powerful were his muscles that he seemed to spurn the water while passing through it, with his broad chest high out of the curling wave, at a speed that neither man nor beast could keep up with for a moment.

His intellect now was sharp and quick as a needle; he never required a second bidding.

When Dick went out hunting, he used frequently to drop a mitten or a powder-horn unknown to the dog, and after walking miles away from it, would stop short and look down into the mild, gentle face of his companion.
"Crusoe," he said, in the same quiet tones with which he would have addressed a human friend, "I've dropped my mitten; go fetch it, pup." Dick continued to call it "pup" from habit.
One glance of intelligence passed from Crusoe's eye, and in a moment he was away at full gallop, nor did he rest until the lost article was lying at his master's feet.