The youth kept on with his work. “I am too busy to listen to watchdogs,” he said. “My axe is dull and I must grind it. The wood must be brought for the kitchen fire; and who will split it if I go running after dogs? Let old Growler howl; I have no time to bother with dogs.”
Louder and still louder waxed the tumult. All the puppies, all the house-curs, all the sledge-dogs, all the watchdogs were barking, baying, yelping, howling.
The head serving-man was greatly disturbed, and yet he liked not to rise from his seat, for he was old and his limbs were stiff.
“In my lifetime I have heard much barking,” he said, “but never such barking as this. Perhaps the dogs have scented a bear escaped from an ice-floe; perhaps they see a band of robbers coming up from the shore. Kuli, my little daughter, listen to me!” [[200]]
“What is it, papa?” answered the child, sitting still on the floor.
“Run out to the turf pile, Kuli,” said her father, “climb up on the very top of it and look around. See what the dogs are barking at, and then run back quickly and tell your tired father.”
“O papa, I am too busy,” answered Kuli. “I want to play with my dolly; I want to put her to sleep. I have no time to run after dogs.”
The head serving-man was perplexed, he was uneasy and half-way angry.
“Everybody is busy to-day,” he said. “Nobody has the time to do anything. Nobody cares for the dogs and nobody cares for me. But I must find out what all the noise is about.”
He rose from his seat, grumbling because of the pains in his joints. He drew on his boots, he pulled his fur cap over his head. Then he went stamping out of the door and across the broad yard. The black watchdog was still tugging at his chain, still howling dolorously. The old serving-man took notice of his actions.