The first image I recall of Tintin is the cover of this book. In the background, the ruins of an old castle are surrounded by crow-like gulls. In the foreground, a boat speeds away from me, its pilot leaning at the stern and clearly making speed from the wake behind his boat and the billowing of his kilt.
And
between them, in the middle of the cover, a small white dog stares directly at
me, his face clearly communicating fear, his eyes asking, almost imploring:
“What on earth is he getting me into this time?”