“I’ll come, if you like,” agreed Arnon, listlessly. “It doesn’t matter much, now, either way. I might as well be there as anywhere.”
“Good!” approved his father. “We can just make the ten o’clock train, if we hurry. I’ve got a taxi waiting at the other end of the pier.”
Side by side, father and son walked away from the pound. The boy’s eyes were downcast. His face was haggard. His heart was dead. From time to time, as they walked, the man stole a covert glance at him, and his own face contracted as in sharp pain.
“Here’s the taxi,” said Mr. Flint at last. “Open the door, will you? You’re nearer to it than I am.”
Mechanically, Arnon turned the handle. As he pulled the taxi door ajar, two furry catapults from within the vehicle launched themselves, rapturously and yelpingly, upon him.
“You see,” explained Mr. Flint, to his unhearing son, “I had quite a talk with the poundmaster before you got here, this morning. He’s been noticing you, it seems. And he told me a rather pathetic little story. When I heard it I decided to make an investment in livestock. I was putting these two puppies into the taxi when you hobbled past me on your way to the pound. I——”
“Buck!” Arnon was sobbing, in a frenzy of bliss. “Buck! Dandy!”
At sound of their names, the dogs wriggled free from Arnon’s embrace—just for the uproarious fun of hurling themselves once more upon him.
“Hurry up, Son!” suggested Mr. Flint, clearing his throat noisily. “Get aboard—you and the pups. We’ll miss that train!”