"I get you, Frank!" he said. "Go find him!"
Gratefully Frank looked up at his master. He ran to the lot fence, and reared up on it, smelling the top of the planks. Then he drew back, gathered himself, and sprang up on the fence. He remained poised for a moment, sprang down, and started across the cotton patch, his nose to the ground.
"You had better stay, Mrs. Davis," said Earle.
"No, I'm going." Her motherly face was set, the wind was whipping her skirt about her.
Aunt Cindy had run to the house and brought her a raincoat. She was going, too, declared the black woman. They all hurried around the lot. In the cottonfield Frank was still waiting.
"Had we better let Tommy go?" asked Davis.
"He stood up for the kid, John," replied Earle. "He's going to be in at the finish."
Down by the woods Frank was waiting for them now—waiting for these slow-moving bipeds. "This is the way he went," he said plainer than words. "Better than if I had seen him, I know." His long silken ears were blown back by the wind. As they drew nearer they saw the eagerness of his dark eyes. Earle took Tommy by the hand. On the other side, his beard blown against him, hurried Mr. John Davis. Behind came the women.
A quarter of a mile in the woods, dark with the approaching storm, Earle turned a grim face to his neighbour.