His advances were well received, and from that hour he followed the seaman like his shadow.

He shared his prison with him, trotted behind him when he walked up and down his room in the widow's cottage; lay down at his feet when he rested; looked up inquiringly in his face when he paused to meditate; whined and wagged his stump of a tail when he was taken notice of, and lay down to sleep in deep humility when he was neglected.
Thus it came to pass that Toozle attended the trial of Bumpus, entered his cell along with him, slept with him during the night, accompanied him to the gallows in the morning, and sat under him when they were adjusting the noose, looking up with feelings of unutterable dismay, as clearly indicated by the lugubrious and woebegone cast of his ragged countenance.

But we are anticipating.
It was on the morning of his execution that Bumpus sat on the edge of his hard pallet, gazed at his manacled wrists, and gave vent to the sentiments set down at the beginning of this chapter.
Toozle sat down at his feet, looking up in his face sympathetically.
"No, I _don't_ believe it's possible," said Bumpus, for at least the hundredth time that morning.

"It's a joke; that's wot it is.

Ain't it, Toozle, my boy ?" Toozle whined, wagged his tail, and said, as plainly as if he had spoken: "Yes, of course it is,--an uncommonly bad joke, no doubt; but a joke, undoubtedly; so keep up your heart, my man." "Ah! you're a funny dog," continued Bumpus; "but you don't know what it is to be hanged, my boy.