As Fisty swung heavily along the shore, Avery came from down river with one of the men.
“They’re pilin’ up at the ‘Elbow,’” he said, as he approached. “They’s a full head of water comin’ through the gates, but she’s a-goin’ to tie up.”
“That means the outfit will be here indefinitely,” said David.
“Reckon it do. Comin’ up to the house?”
“No; I think I’ll go over and see if Smoke is all right.”
“Thet’s right: I’ll send Swickey over with some grub fur him,” said Avery, as he moved on up the slope.
“Well, it’s pretty tough on old Smoke, chained up and worrying himself out of appetite, because he can’t understand it all,” thought David, as he climbed the easy slope to the stable.
The clink and rustle of a chain in the straw came to him as he unlocked the rusty padlock and opened the door. Smoke stood blinking and sniffling. Then on his hind legs, chain taut from collar to manger, he strained toward his master, whimpering and half strangled by his effort to break loose. David drew an empty box to the stall and sat down.
“Smoke,” he said playfully, “we’re going back to Boston pretty soon. Then no more hikes down the trail; no more rabbits and squirrels to chase; and no more Swickey to spoil you. Just Wallie and the horses and maybe a cat or two to chase.”
The dog sat on his haunches, tongue lolling, but eyes fixed unwaveringly on David’s face. He whined when Swickey’s name was mentioned, and while David listlessly picked a straw to pieces, he turned and gnawed savagely at his chain. Surely they had made a mistake to shut him away from the good sun and the wind and the rain. The consciousness of unseen presences stamping past his door, strange voices, new man-smells, the rumbling of logs in the river, the scent of smoke from the wangan, all combined to irritate him, redoubling his sense of impotency as a champion and guardian of his adopted household.