These two Clydesdales had been working hard in the hay field and were so sleepy that they paid little attention to my movements.
The entrance doors were wide open, so I slipped out and stood in the shadow and looked about me.
It was a beautiful moonlight night. A big round Lady Moon stared and stared down at Fawn Lake and the Devering Farm. The electric lights were out, but one scarcely missed them owing to this wonderfully bright bigger light in the sky.
Now what was I fussing about? Everything was calm and still. There was not a breath of wind. Drunkard, whose real name was Baywell, was travelling head down about the house and grounds like a swift fleet shadow-dog. Occasionally he looked up at the moon, but he did not make a sound that would wake anyone up.
Some owls hooted gently in the distance. How foolish I was to worry. This was a very safe region. No one ever heard of anyone being attacked or injured.
But something was going to happen. I just knew it, and nothing would satisfy me, but to keep near my young master, so I paced slowly toward the house.
Drunkard passed me on the dead run. "Smelling out trouble?" he asked me as he flashed by.
"Stop!" I said, and he pulled up.
"Do you feel anything in your bones?" I asked.
"Not a thing," he replied, "except a little rheumatism. All hunting dogs get it in time."