A minute later, she was hurrying into her clothes. When she was dressed she tip-toed down the hall and knocked at the farthest door. "Bob," she called softly.
"Yes," came the instant reply. "What is it?" Fortunately the wind had rattled his shade, so that the noise had awakened him a few minutes before.
"Get up," Polly called. "Sandy's awfully sick and I'm frightened."
Bob hurried into his things with full speed and joined her. Together they carried the dog into the morning room at the head of the stairs, and put him on the lounge. Bob lit the lamp.
"He can't breathe," Polly said desperately. "Oh, Bob, what can we do?"
Bob went for water and moistened the dog's tongue while Polly held his head in her arms. His breathing grew more labored.
"Could Tim do anything?" Bob suggested, forlornly. He knew that he couldn't, but it was terrible to just watch the dog suffer.
Polly shook her head. She didn't dare trust herself to speak. After a little while the breathing grew quieter. Sandy turned his head and licked Polly's hand. Then quite suddenly it stopped—his body trembled and he lay still in her arms.
Bob put his hand on her shoulder.
"Better leave him, Poll," he said huskily.