At night when he harked every member of the household knew whether the intruder was man or beast. Oftentimes at dawn he would push open Anne’s door and lick her hand that was lying on the counterpane, to signify that he wanted the front door opened. Then when she, in dressing gown and slippers, or sometimes, I must confess, with bare toes and an airy nighty, would creep down the stairs and undo the bolts, cautioning silence, she was often lured out on to the porch by the expression of his face as he tiptoed about, unravelling the different trails that told him the story of the night.
Sometimes he would give a growl and his back bristled—that meant an intruder from Dogtown had left an unwelcome message or disagreeable news. Then his eyes would grow deep and luminous, and when Anne asked, “Squirrel?” he would give a short yap as if to say, “No good,” and gaze up in the trees. But when he began by wildly zig-zagging to and fro with head down, uttering discordant cries, then dashing off without waiting to answer questions, his mistress knew that he was following either a cat or rabbit, and that he would return late for breakfast and very tired.
To think that the little animal that knew all this should be moping unkempt and forlorn in the coal-bin, gave affectionate Anne the heartache. Next she tried the experiment of having Baldy carry him upstairs and give him a good bath, for his wounds were now healed, and then invited him to “go to the post-office” in the old-time gay tone.
For a moment he rallied and gave an answering cry which was echoed by Bigness, who, as chance would have it, was lying in the shadow of the house front, Tommy having taken him from his yard and strolled away, forgetting to put him up again.
At the sound Waddles bristled and then shrank away, and Anne realized for the first time how thin and altered and spiritless he was. But the next day a change came over him: he forsook the cellar and boldly took his old seat under the apple tree in full sight of Bigness’s house, as if tempting fate; but as he did not come out Waddles returned again to the cellar.
Tommy sided with the St. Bernard, wailing that the fault was all Waddles’s, and passionately refused to part with his pet and have Jack and Jill for his very own, even though Bigness should go to a beautiful home to be the pet of his dear friend, little Miss Muffet, who lived at a big farm far away and had no dog friend at all.
“The train killed Lily, and now you want to steal Bigness from me just because your silly Waddles is selfish and wants to fight and have everybody for himself. I don’t care if he was here first; he’s old and he’ll soon be dead, anyway—and I’m glad and—” but he didn’t finish, for Anne, sweet tempered and fifteen though she was, shook her little brother hard and then flew up the hill to her tree perch in tears. It was the first time that Tommy had ever been shaken, and he was as surprised and heartbroken as Waddles had been at his overthrow.
However, he did not cry but stood quite still, with a very red face and quivering lips, muttering to himself, “Anne’s as cross as Bigness—and she hardly never cries—and—it’s horrid to be shaken, and I guess I am sorry for Waddles—a—little bit.” And more days passed.
In the coal-bin crouched Waddles in dismal plight, his brain full of dark thoughts; for dogs do a deal of thinking when they seem to be only dozing in the sun or before the fire, and Waddles in hiding neither ate nor slept and did nothing but think, for it was two days now since he had taken more than a drink of water. Anne did not know this, for the food she took him disappeared into the capacious stomachs of Jack and Jill, who amused themselves half the day by rolling and scrambling up and down the cellar steps.