A country wagon came by just then, and away fluttered the pigeons and sparrows. Under the wagon trotted the large farm-dog who had told the Fire-Dog about Toby.
“Any news of Toby?” he called out when he caught sight of the Fire-Dog.
“Not much. I know where he is, though. I’ve seen him.”
“You don’t say so? Well, why doesn’t he come home? He hasn’t gone back on his old friends, has he? They say city life is kind of enticing. I never had any desire to try it myself.”
“He has fallen into kind hands,” replied the Fire-Dog. “They are poor people, but kind. I gave him your message, and he said he meant to escape the first chance that offered. He may and then again he may not. He struck me as kind of soft. Not a great deal of spirit, I should say.”
“You struck it right,” replied the farm-dog. “There isn’t a better-meaning dog than Toby, but he isn’t very strong-minded.”
“From what I have heard about him, he must be a perfect fool,” growled Boxer.
“Have you seen him?” inquired the farm-dog, bristling at once, for dogs don’t like to have their friends insulted.
“No, and I don’t want to,” growled Boxer. “Hearing is bad enough, let alone seeing.”