"I'll not forget!" said the boy.
Mr. Poddle laid a hand on his head. "God bless you, Richard!" said he.
The boy kissed him, unafraid of his monstrous countenance—and then fled to his mother....
For a long time the Dog-faced Man lay alone, listening to the voices across the hall: himself smiling to know that the woman had her son again; not selfishly reluctant to be thus abandoned. The door was ajar. Joyous sounds drifted in—chatter, soft laughter, the rattle of dishes.... Presently, silence: broken by the creaking of the rocking-chair, and by low singing.... By and by, voices, speaking gravely—in intimate converse: this for a long, long time, while the muttering of the tenement ceased, and quiet fell.... A plea and an imploring protest. She was wanting him to go to bed. There followed the familiar indications that the child was being disrobed: shoes striking the floor, yawns, sleepy talk, crooning encouragement.... Then a strange silence—puzzling to the listener: not accountable by his recollection of similar occasions.
There was a quick step in the hall.
"Poddle!"
The Dog-faced Man started. There was alarm in the voice—despair, resentment. On the threshold stood the woman—distraught: one hand against the door-post, the other on her heart.
"Poddle, he's——"
Mr. Poddle, thrown into a paroxysm of fright by the pause, struggled to his elbow, but fell back, gasping.
"What's he doin'?" he managed to whisper.