Chet laughed. He stooped and touched the dog’s head.
“Job,” he said, “come here.”
Job got up and stood at Chet’s knee, looking up into his master’s face, tail wagging slowly to and fro. Chet waved his hand toward the barn.
“Go fetch the cat,” he said. “Go fetch the cat, Job.” The dog looked toward the barn, looked up at Chet again. Chet repeated, “Fetch the cat, Job.”
And the dog, a little doubtfully, left them and walked toward the barn. The cat saw Job coming, but was not afraid. They were old friends. All creatures were friends on Chet’s farm. It rose as Job approached and rubbed against his legs. Job stood still, uncertain; he looked back at Chet, looked down at the cat, looked back at Chet.
“Fetch, Job!” Chet called.
Then the dog in a matter of fact way that delighted the three men on the porch closed his jaws over the cat’s back, at the shoulder. The cat may have been astonished, but it is cat instinct to hang quietly when lifted in this wise. It made no more than a muffled protest; it hung in a furry ball, head drawn up, paws close against its body.
Job brought the cat gravely to Chet’s knee, and Chet took it from his mouth and soothed it and applauded Job.
“I’ll give you five hundred for that dog,” said Hayes.
“You don’t want to buy him,” Chet replied slowly, and the two men saw that there was a fierce pride in his eyes.