The dog closed his eyes as though expecting a blow.
Donaldson dropped him. The animal crawled away beneath the sofa. Donaldson felt more alone that minute than he had ever felt in all his life. It was as though he sat there, the sole living thing in the broad universe. There was nothing left but the blinking eyes of the bottles dancing in still brisker joy. He could not endure it.
Moving across the room he knelt by the sofa and tried to coax the frightened animal out again.
"Sandy. Come, Sandy," he called.
There was no show of life. He snapped his fingers. He groped beneath the old lounge. Then, in a frenzy of fear, lest it had all been an apparition, he swung the sofa into the middle of the room. The dog followed beneath it, but he caught a glimpse of him. He pushed the sofa back to the wall and began to coax again.
"Come out, Sandy. I 'll not hurt you. Come, Sandy."
There was a scratching movement and then the tip of a hot, dry nose appeared.
"Come. That 's a good dog. Come."
He could hear the tail vigorously thumping the floor, but the head appeared only inch by inch. Donaldson held his breath.
"Come," he whispered.