He lifted Buff into the car, cranked the muddy and battered little vehicle, and climbed aboard. Then, as the farm-hand still gaped at him with a new respect in the bulgingly bloodshot eyes, the stranger called back:
“If you decide to tell this dog’s owner what has become of him, my name is Trent—Michael Trent. And I live at Boone Lake, about fifty miles south of here. At least, I used to—and I’m on my way back there.”
It was Buff’s first ride. For a few minutes it startled him to see the countryside running backwards on either side of him, and to feel the bumping vibration and throb of the car under his feet. But almost at once he felt the joy of the new sensation, as does the average dog that gets a chance to motor.
Besides, this rescuer of his was a most interesting person, a man whose latent strength appealed to Buff’s canine hero-worship; a man, too, who was unhappy. And, with true collie perception, Buff realised and warmed to the human’s unhappiness.
Added to all this, Trent had a delightful way of taking one hand from the steering-wheel from time to time and patting or rumpling the puppy’s head. Once the strong slender fingers found the name tag.
“‘Buff,’ hey?” murmured Trent. “Is that your name or the colour of the goods that were marked by this tag? How about it, Buff?”
He accented the last word. In response, Buff’s tail began to wag, and one forepaw went up to the man’s knee.
“‘Buff’ it is,” nodded Trent. “And a good little name at that. A good little name for a good little dog. And now that I’ve gone broke, in buying you, will you please tell me what I’m going to do with you? I’m an outcast, you know, Buff. An Ishmaelite. And I’m on my way back to my home-place to live things down. It’ll be a tough job, Buff. All kinds of rotten times ahead. Want to face it with me?”
Much did Trent talk to the dog during that long and bumpy drive. His voice was pleasant, to his little chum. And it was the first time in Buff’s six months of life that a human had troubled to waste three sentences of speech on him. The attention tickled the lonely pup. His heart was warming more and more to this tired-eyed, quiet-voiced new master of his.
Closer he cuddled to the man’s knee, looking up into the prison-pale face with growing eagerness and interest. There was a wistfulness in Buff’s deep-set eyes as he gazed. With tense effort he was trying to grasp the meaning of the unknown words wherewith from time to time Trent favoured him. The man noted the pathetic eagerness of look, and his own desolate heart warmed to this first interested listener he had encountered in more than a year. He expanded under the flattering attention, and his talk waxed less disjointed.