However, when Sard regained control of his wits he realised that a swimming dog doesn't dive and doesn't whack the water with its tail.
He dimly remembered hearing that beavers behaved that way.
Watching the water he saw the thing out there in the lake again, swimming in erratic circles, its big, dog-like head well out of the water.
It certainly was no dog. A beaver, maybe. Whatever it was, Sard didn't care any longer.
Idly he watched it. Sometimes, when it swam very near, he made a sudden motion with his far arm; and crack! -- with a pistol-shot report down it dived. But always it re-appeared.
What had a creature like that to do with him? Sard watched it with failing interest, thinking of other things -- of Quintana and the chances that the dogs had caught him, -- of Sanchez, the Ghoul, hoping that dire misfortune might overtake him, too; -- of the dead man sprawling under the cedar-tree, all sopping crimson---- Faugh!
Shivering, Sard filled his mouth with apple-pie and cheese and pulled the cork from another bottle of home-brewed beer.