But all this machinery made his head tired. So did the smoke and the smells and the confusion of streets.
Some rural path—preferably in Kentucky—was the only thing he could think of that would rest him and entertain him when he had no person to talk to and no pet to play with.
So he sat upon the knob and kicked his heels to cool his restless feet. His eyes turned from the city's buildings to its fringe of green. They wandered again to the spot where he had seen the most satisfactory thing of the whole day—those passing dogs.
There was a bunch of tawny leaves blowing along the hillside. He stared at it idly. No, it was not leaves, that patch of uncertain color. It was something living, something leaping.
How uncertainly it moved! How wabbly it was! Doby sat up sharply and peered. He stood up and leaned forward. He shut his eyes for a better long-distance focus and squinted.
"It is the yellow dog again. Dog? No! Fox? It can't be a fox! It surely is a fox." Behind the fox a dog was running. A long chase had tired them both. Their pace was dragging.
"It is the same dog, I do believe, and the same fox that I saw before. What a big circle they must be running!"
All alert now, Doby measured their speed. If he ran forward in quick time at right angles to it, their course would pass quite close to him. Away he flew.
He was thinking, "That fox is exhausted. It can hardly get along. The hunt has been an all-day one. The dog—ah, the poor brave doggie!—is worse off than the fox. He will never catch it. What a fine dog! What a game dog, not to give up when he is outrun! He is my kind of a dog. I'll help him."