Where is he, Presto?—Where is he? What a fright to wake up in the boat, among the reeds, all alone, the master gone and not a trace of him! It is something to be alarmed about.
And how long you have been running, barking nervously, trying to find him, poor Presto! How could you sleep so soundly and not notice the little master get out of the boat? Otherwise, you would have wakened as soon as he made the least move.
You could scarcely find the place where he landed, and here in the downs you are all confused. That nervous sniffing has not helped a bit. Oh, despair! The master gone—not a sign of him. Find him, Presto, find him!
See! straight before you on the hillside. Is not that a little form lying there? Look! look!
For an instant the little dog stood motionless, straining his gaze out into the distance. Then suddenly he stretched out his head, and raced—flew with all the might of his four little paws toward that dark spot on the hillside.
And when it proved to be the grievously wanted little master, he could not find a way to fully express his joy and thankfulness. He wagged his tail, his entire little body quivering with joy—he jumped, yelped, barked, and then pushed his little cold nose against the face of his long-sought friend, and licked and sniffed all over it.
"Cuddle down, Presto, in your basket," said Johannes, only half awake.
How stupid of the master! There was no basket there, as any one could see.
Very, very slowly the day began to break in the mind of the little sleeper.
Presto's sniffings he was used to—every morning. But dream-figures of elves and moonshine still lingered in his soul as the morning mists cling to the landscape. He feared that the chill breath of the dawn might chase them away. "Eyes fast shut," thought he, "or I shall see the clock and the wall-paper, just as ever."