"No, thank you, Yakov Ivanitch, I must get home quickly; I am so anxious."
The constable eyed the gallant little figure of the boy, who had mounted again.
"You are young to ride out alone so far, at dead of night," said he.
"I was not alone, Yakov Ivanitch," replied Alf, his fearless dark eyes meeting the man's frankly.
"How not?" exclaimed the sergeant.
"God was with me," said the boy. "I felt Him there every step of the way." And with a wave of his small hand, he galloped away.
Sharik needed no urging on the homeward journey, and even Alf's impatience could find no fault with his good little steed.
When within a quarter of a mile of the house, he left the high road and again took the way by the river, coming up at the back of the house.
He could see no lights in any of the windows as he dismounted and led his pony into the stable. The kitchen door was unlocked, as he had left it, and when once inside, he soon had the gas alight. But what was his surprise to see the long pinewood table loaded up with dirty plates and dishes with remnants of food; glasses, cups and empty bottles added to the disorder. The place looked like some low tap-room.
Full of forebodings, the boy took a candle from the shelf, and went down the long corridor that ran from the back to the front of the house.