“So long,” he said abruptly. “My boss has to get to town.”
I watched him rocking out of the room. How the old dog had aged. I was quite shocked.
My convalescence was rapid. Not many days later, I had my bandages off, and was able to limp about the place.
The first day I was strong enough to get up to the orchard, I received what the newspapers call an “ovation.” It was a lovely day, and not too cold. The dogs formed a circle about me on the snow, and I had to relate the story of my capture.
I looked round on their faces—our Pleasant River dogs, the Green Hill dogs, Reddy O’Mare and many other neighbour dogs, and a sudden shyness fell upon me.
Gringo was chairman, and to give me a chance to recover, he began to tell how I was caught, and purposely related it in a wrong way.
“No, it wasn’t like that,” I interrupted, and the old dog, with a smile, told me to go on, and finish the story properly.
I got excited, and talked for an hour. Then we had a jubilation. The dogs all ran round and round, and frisked and barked, and watching them, I shouted suddenly, “Hurrah for American dogs—we beat the world!”
They all barked a chorus of approval, then we separated. Gringo and I kept together, and had one of our old-time walks and talks.
“Let’s go over to your place,” I said. “I don’t believe it would be too much for me.”