"There 's your dog," said Donaldson.
Barstow turned. The dog, with his forefeet on Barstow's knee, was stretching his neck towards his master's hand.
"Hello, pup," he greeted him. "Did the janitor use you all right?" He shook him off.
Donaldson sat down. Barstow stood in front of him a moment and then reached to feel his pulse. It was normal.
"I 'm not sick, I tell you," said Donaldson, trying to laugh, "I was just all in. I came up here to see if you were back and slumped down on the couch. Then I fell asleep. There 's your dog behind you."
"What of it?" demanded Barstow.
"Why—he looks glad to see you."
"What of that?"
"Nothing."
Barstow laid his hand on Donaldson's shoulder.