Out of that great idea
there grew one little secondary idea, and that idea was that the only
joy on earth worth mentioning was to sit on his haunches, exactly
six inches from Crusoe's nose, and gaze steadfastly into his face.
Wherever Crusoe went Grumps went. If Crusoe stopped, Grumps was
down before him in an instant. If Crusoe bounded away, which in the
exuberance of his spirits he often did, Grumps was after him like a
bundle of mad hair. He was in everybody's way, in Crusoe's way, and
being, so to speak, "beside himself," was also in his own way. If
people trod upon him accidentally, which they often did, Grumps
uttered a solitary heart-rending yell proportioned in intensity to the
excruciating nature of the torture he endured, then instantly resumed
his position and his fascinated stare. Crusoe generally held his head
up, and gazed over his little friend at what was going on around him;
but if for a moment he permitted his eye to rest on the countenance of
Grumps, that creature's tail became suddenly imbued with an amount of
wriggling vitality that seemed to threaten its separation from the
body.
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