tolled. The gun shot again and again. But not until late at
night did he venture cautiously back, stopping in shadows like a big red
fox come to rob the chicken roost.

He trailed the buggy off to the main road and toward Breton Junction. He
returned to find his supper waiting on the back steps. Profoundly
grateful, he crawled into his box. But at daybreak Earle came out,
fastened a collar round his neck, led him by a chain to the corner of
the front porch, and there fastened him. The cook brought him his
breakfast.

It was his last meal there, she declared bluntly. That rich man and his
wife were going to take him. They had spent the night at Breton
Junction. They would be back directly. He had too much sense for a dog,
anyhow. He made her feel spooky. She laughed. She was a big, bluff black
woman. To her a dog was a dog.

Frank ran his nose over the food, but his stomach revolted. He shivered
with cold and fear. Down the hill he watched the morning mists lift from
the maplike demarcation of field and wood, revealing the rich pageantry
of an autumn morning. He knew every spot that birds frequented in all
that gorgeous country.

In the living room above him he could hear Earle poking the fire. He
could hear the low mumble of his voice, the soft treble of Marian's.
They avoided him now as if he were a plague. He did not try to make it
out. His master was providence. He could not question the decrees of
providence, but he would circumvent them if he could. Once he had broken
a collar. He began to plunge, but was jerked back, coughing and choking.
He lay down, and with his paws tried to pull the collar over his head.
Worn out at last, he crawled underneath the house.

Then came a guarded tap-rap down the front steps. From under the porch
he saw blue overalls and stubby shoes. They hugged the porch, they made
their way toward him. Then Tommy squatted down and peered with solemn
face into the shadow.

"F'ank," he whispered fearfully.

The dog went to him and licked the chubby hands and the soft cheek, as
he had licked them that first day. With a secret look all about, Tommy
began to work with the fastening of the chain, his tongue poking through
his lips and wiggling. The spring was strong, the thumb that pressed
feeble, numb with cold. Once it clicked, and Tommy bit down on his
tongue, and the dog sprang forward. The fastening caught, the boy
gasped--then frantically began to press.

"What're you doing there?"