“We’ve lost the dog whilst we slept. That’s what we’ve done,” answered the boy in a harsh, scolding note. “The dog’s lost.”
He whistled again sharply, and cried:
“Arto-o-o!”
“Ah, you’re just making up nonsense! He’ll return,” said grandfather. But all the same, he also got up and began to call the dog in an angry, sleepy, old man’s falsetto:
“Arto! Here, dog!”
The old man hurriedly and tremblingly ran across the bridge and began to go upward along the highway, calling the dog as he went. In front of him lay the bright, white stripe of the road, level and clear for half a mile, but on it not a figure, not a shadow.
“Arto! Ar-tosh-enka!” wailed the old man in a piteous voice, but suddenly he stopped calling him, bent down on the roadside and sat on his heels.
“Yes, that’s what it is,” said the old man in a failing voice. “Sergey! Serozha! Come here, my boy!”
“Now what do you want?” cried the boy rudely. “What have you found now? Found yesterday lying by the roadside, eh?”
“Serozha ... what is it?... What do you make of it? Do you see what it is?” asked the old man, scarcely above a whisper. He looked at the boy in a piteous and distracted way, and his arms hung helplessly at his sides.