Even in his half-stupefied brain there was memory enough left for recognition.
He remembered the lake. His gaze travelled to the westward; and he saw Clinch's Dump standing below, stark, silent, the doors swinging open in the wind.
When terror had subsided in a measure and some of his trembling strength returned, he got up out of the clump of rag-weeds where he had lain down, and earnestly nosed the unpainted house, listening with all his ears.
There was not a sound save the soughing of autumn winds and the delicate rattle of falling leaves in the woods behind him.
He needed food and rest. He gazed earnestly at the house. Nothing stirred there save the open doors swinging idly in every vagrant wind.
He ventured down a little way — near enough to see the black cinders of the burned bar, and close enough to hear the lake waters slapping the sandy shore.
If he dared——
And after a long while he ventured to waddle nearer, slinking through the brush and frosted weed, creeping behind boulders, edging always closer and closer to that silent house where nothing moved except the wind-blown door.
And now, at last, he set a furtive foot upon the threshold, stood listening, tip-toed in, peered here and there, sidled to the dining-room, peered in.
* * * * *