Though every movement gave him agony, the old man hobbled away from the window. The dog sprang in, and Dillson clapped the sash down. He had the animal now.
Poacher was running around the room, sniffing vigorously. He stood on his hind legs and smelled at the peg where the hat and tippet had hung. Then he ran to the wood-shed door.
With a most unusual exertion of strength, the old man rose, pushed the chair before him, and breathing hard, and resting heavily on it, opened the cellar door. He would shut the dog down there out of sight, and where he could not run out if any one came in.
"She's down there, dog," he said, and the boldness with which he told the story so impressed Poacher, that after one inquiring glance which convinced him that his enemy's attitude had changed from that of a murderous to a semi-friendly one, he dashed down the steps into the cold cellar.
Dillson slammed the door, and chuckled. Now to get back to the window. He tried to hitch his chair along, but he was weak and must rest. He sat for a few minutes, and when the few minutes were over, he found that his muscles had stiffened. He could not move.
He sat a little longer. The fire went out, and the room got cold. He was so far from the window that he doubted if any one could hear him if he shouted.
He lifted up his voice to try. He was as hoarse as a crow. He had a cold, and it was every minute getting worse. If he had the dog from the cellar, he might tie something to him and frighten him so that he would go dashing through a window. He began to feel that if the little girl did not return, he might sit there till he died.
His case was not desperate yet, however. He waited and waited. The night came and went, and another morning dawned, and the weather changed outside, until a stiff frost began to transform the thaw into a return of winter weather—and still he waited, but the little girl did not come.