Mack rolled over, as he finished shouting his peevish order, and sank again into slumber, worn out by his long day in the open.
Treve shrank back from the door as though his master’s angry reproof had been a blow. Hesitant, he crouched there. He had turned to his god in his moment of heartbreak. And his god had refused to come to his aid.
Then, an instant later, the collie’s ears were raised in new eagerness. A soft, if stumpy, footfall was crossing the kitchen floor. Joel Fenno opened the door and slipped out onto the porch, in sketchy attire, closing the door behind him.
“What’s the matter, Trevy?” he whispered. “What’s wrong, old sonny? Hey?”
Treve caught him by the hem of his abbreviated nightshirt and tugged at the garment, frantically; backing off the steps and seeking to drag Fenno after him. Joel gave one sharp look at the quivering dog; then nodded.
“I’ll take your tip, Trevy,” he whispered, disengaging his shirt from the hauling jaws. “Wait!”
He tiptoed indoors. But Treve was content. He knew the man would rejoin him.
In less than a minute Joel came back. He had yanked on his trousers and had stuck his feet into a ragged pair of carpet slippers. Under his arm he carried a loaded shotgun. In a trouser pocket were stuck four buckshot cartridges and a flashlight.
“Now, then,” he bade the dog, “come on!”
Treve waited for no second bidding. He wheeled and made for the outbuildings. At every few rods, he would pause and look back to make sure Fenno was following.