If he could get him to answer to the name! It meant life—a chance for life! It meant, perhaps, that there had been some mistake—that, perhaps, after all, the poison was not so deadly as Barstow had thought it.
He threw himself upon the floor beside the dog. In the body of this black terrier centred everything in life that a man holds most dear. If he could speak—if the dumb tongue could wag an answer to that one question!
The dog turned over and crawled nearer. Donaldson fixed his burning eyes upon the blinking brute.
"Sandy," he cried, "is this you, Sandy?"
The moist tongue reached for his fingers.
He took a deep breath. He said,
"Dick—is this you, Dick?"
Again the moist tongue reached for his fingers.
Donaldson picked him up.
"Sandy," he cried, "answer me."