Lad sprang to one side instinctively as the thrower's arm went back. The knife whizzed, harmless, into the sumac patch. Lad's teeth bared themselves in something that looked like a smile and was not. Then he lay down again on guard.
A minute later he was up with a jump. From the direction of the house came a shrill whistle followed by a shout of "Lad! La-ad!" It was the Master calling him. The summons could not be ignored. Usually it was obeyed with eager gladness, but now—Lad looked worriedly up into the tree. Then, coming to a decision, he galloped away at top speed.
In ten seconds he was at the veranda where the Master stood talking with a newly arrived guest. Before the Master could speak to the dog, Lad rushed up to him, whimpering in stark appeal, then ran a few steps toward the stables, paused, looked back and whimpered again.
"What's the matter with him?" loudly demanded the guest—an obese and elderly man, right sportily attired. "What ails the silly dog?"
"He's found something," said the Master. "Something he wants me to come and see—and he wants me to come in a hurry."
"How do you know?" asked the guest.
"Because I know his language as well as he knows mine," retorted the Master.
He set off in the wake of the excited dog. The guest followed in more leisurely fashion complaining:
"Of all the idiocy! To let a measly dog drag you out of the shade on a red-hot day like this just to look at some dead chipmunk he's found!"
"Perhaps," stiffly agreed the Master, not slackening his pace. "But if Lad behaves like that, unless it's pretty well worth while, he's changed a lot in the past hour. A man can do worse sometimes than follow a tip his dog gives him."