This was not as easy as Don had thought it would be. It was quite different from having Bob, or Bob’s mother or sister, bring out a nice plate of table scraps or a juicy bone. No one brought Don anything now, for he was a runaway dog.
“Never mind,” said Don to himself, in a way dogs have, “I guess I can go up to the back door of one of these houses, and pick up a bone or two. I’ll try it.”
Just then he was passing a large white house, that looked something like the one where his kennel was.
“There’s sure to be plenty to eat in a place like that,” thought Don.
Around to the back door he trotted, and, surely enough, he saw on the ground some bones with bits of meat on them. Don felt more hungry than ever when he saw them.
“Ah ha!” he whispered to himself, as he licked his teeth with his red tongue, “now for a fine dinner! Why this is as good as I would get at home. Who says running away isn’t jolly?”
But, just as Don was going to pick up the nicest bone, a harsh voice called to him:
“Here! Get out of there! Be off!” and a stone was thrown at Don, hitting him on the leg.
“Ouch!” he yelped. “Ouch! Bow wow!”