Sultan would have loved to, if he could. John Kenny swung up his aging feet as the storm swept by.
Reuben followed.
"Sultan!" Charity wailed. "Come here this instant! Sultan, shame! Abusing that poor cat!"
Mr. Kenny lifted his feet again.
Reuben followed.
A chair toppled over. If Sultan had nourished any hopes at all, they had centered around that chair. He might, like Milton's Lucifer, have had none—Which way I fly is hell, myself am hell.... Reuben followed, dimly aware of his brother in the doorway and Kate Dobson behind him, both shouting encouragement. Uncle John seemed rather happy too, but was preparing to lift his feet a third time. Reuben observed that everyone, in fact, was laughing except himself, and he would too if he could only gain a little.... At last he was able to swoop down and grasp the loose skin of a rigid yellow neck. He hoisted it; Sultan shot away from under it. A good deal of Sultan's hair came up on the claws, but the essential dog was then able to flee under Charity's chair and leave all the rest to the judgment of history.
Reuben secured Mr. Eccles' threshing hind legs and bore him to the kitchen door. Ben dived to open it for him, doubled over and hooting but aware of the flashing forepaws.
"Ben!" said Mr. Kenny—"Ben, you a'n't got sea-room. You, Reuben, I mean Mr. Cory, do you tack a mite to la'board—la'board, sir! There—now, Ben, now you can cross his bow."
"'Sbody!" said Kate. "I wouldn't trade 'im for a mastiff!"
"Best not leave him alone out there, Kate," said Mr. Kenny. "You hear that?" Reuben had flung Mr. Eccles into the kitchen and closed the door just in time, but he could be heard marching up and down, blaspheming. "He's lonely, the little thing."