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Crusoe, however, had been so well used to dodging the blunt-headed arrows that were wont to be shot at him by the boys of the Mustang Valley, that he was quite prepared, and eluded the shaft by an active bound. Moreover, he uttered one of his own peculiar roars, flew at the Indian's throat, and dragged him down.
For a moment I compared myself to that monarch of the waste Robinson Crusoe. We had been both thrown companionless he on the shore of a desolate island: I on that of a desolate world. I was rich in the so called goods of life.
My mind would go on working, till I was overcome by the strength and power that was greater than myself. What I did at such times I do not know. I must have been dazed. After a while I could sit quietly and gaze far away. Then I would imagine myself all alone on the ocean, and Robinson Crusoe was very real to me. I was alone sometimes.
Crusoe acknowledged the fact with a wag and a playful "bow-wow wow-oo-ow!" and followed his master to the place where the horse had been picketed. It was standing there quite quiet, but looking a little timid.
But this was only a brief lull in the storm, so Dick saw that the time was now come to assert the superiority of his race. "Stay back, Crusoe, and watch my rifle, pup," he cried, and raising his heavy switch he brought it down with a sharp cut across the horse's flank, at the same time loosening the rein which hitherto he had held tight.
Had he not written "Robinson Crusoe" he would still have held a high place in English literature, because of the other romances that came from his teeming brain, and because of the political tracts that made so deep and lasting an impression even in that age of famous political tracts.
Robinson Crusoe could not have been more startled at the footprint in the sand than we were at this unwelcome discovery. My first impulse was to make as rapid a retreat as possible, and bend our steps in some other direction; but our curiosity to see whither this path might lead, prompted us to pursue it.
One day late in the autumn I was tending our sheep on the banks above the cliffs of Gaulton, lying on the soft green turf with my hands under my chin, looking dreamily across the sea towards the blue outline of hills on the Scotch coast. I had just finished reading the last pages of Robinson Crusoe, and the book had fallen from my hand.
Borrow tells us in the twenty-second chapter of "Lavengro" how he sought for other books of adventure like "Robinson Crusoe" which he will not mention by name! and how he read many "books of singular power, but of coarse and prurient imagination." One of these, "The English Rogue," he describes as a book "written by a remarkable genius."
A few minutes after, the major himself came on the ground with the prize rifle on his shoulder, and Fan and Crusoe at his heels the latter tumbling, scrambling, and yelping after its mother, fat and clumsy, and happy as possible, having evidently quite forgotten that it had been nearly roasted alive only a few weeks before.
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