"I wouldn't give you for ten times your weight in golden dollars--if there be sich things." Crusoe made no reply whatever to this.

He regarded it as a truism unworthy of notice; he evidently felt that a comparison between love and dollars was preposterous.
At this point in the conversation a little dog with a lame leg hobbled to the edge of the rocks in front of the spot where Dick was seated, and looked down into the water, which was deep there.

Whether it did so for the purpose of admiring its very plain visage in the liquid mirror, or finding out what was going on among the fish, we cannot say, as it never told us; but at that moment a big, clumsy, savage-looking dog rushed out from the neighbouring thicket and began to worry it.
"Punish him, Crusoe," said Dick quickly.
Crusoe made one bound that a lion might have been proud of, and seizing the aggressor by the back, lifted him off his legs and held him, howling, in the air--at the same time casting a look towards his master for further instructions.
"Pitch him in," said Dick, making a sign with his hand.
Crusoe turned and quietly dropped the dog into the lake.

Having regarded his struggles there for a few moments with grave severity of countenance, he walked slowly back and sat down beside his master.
The little dog made good its retreat as fast as three legs would carry it; and the surly dog, having swum ashore, retired sulkily, with his tail very much between his legs.
Little wonder, then, that Crusoe was beloved by great and small among the well-disposed of the canine tribe of the Mustang Valley.
But Crusoe was not a mere machine.

When not actively engaged in Dick Varley's service, he busied himself with private little matters of his own.