A tall, dusty, black-bearded man rose up beside the road, and Billy stopped immediately.
A large pack lay against the bank.
“You ain't seen a yeller dog?”
“No,” said the doctor, gruffly. He was provoked with Billy. “There aren't any yellow dogs around here.”
“He hadn't no tail,” persisted the stranger, wistfully. “And there were a boy a-holdin' him. He chopped it off when he were little.”
“Who chopped it off?”
“Hey? He's a little cuss, but the dog's a good dog.”
“Get up, Billy,” growled the doctor. “All boys are little cusses. I have n't seen any yellow dog. Nonsense! I wonder he did n't ask if I'd seen the tail.”
But somehow the doctor could not get rid of the man's face, and he found himself looking along the roadside for boys that were distinctly “little cusses” and yellow dogs without tails, all the rest of the day.
In the evening twilight he drove into Salem village. Very cool and pleasant looked the little white house among the trees. Mother Wye stood on the porch in her white apron and cap, watching for him. She was flying signals of distress—if the word were not too strong—she was even agitated. He tramped up the steps reassuringly.