The dog heard the little shoes hit each step twice. Of all the depressing signs of that depressing morning, the last protesting wail as the front door smothered it was the most ominous. Defeated, humbled, the dog slunk back underneath the porch.
But at sight of the hated buggy, he plunged and charged, frothing like a mad dog, running backward, trying to jerk the collar over his head, rolling over and over in his frantic struggles. Not until people were grouped above him did he grow quiet. Then when his former mistress stooped down and petted him, he begged her with his eyes as he had begged her in that other life, and knew, as he had known then, that she did not understand.
"I wonder what's the matter with him?" she said.
"It's plain enough what's the matter," replied Lancaster.
"Would you sell him?" asked Earle eagerly.
She straightened up. "No, indeed; we would not think of that."
"Then," said Earle wearily, "suppose we go in to the fire. You have a couple of hours to wait."
But he and Lancaster lingered near the porch while the women went into the house.
"I've just learned," Lancaster was saying, "that this is the plantation where the field trials are run. Have you thought of entering Dan?"
"No," said Earle. "Frank's an old-fashioned shooting dog. The greatest one I ever saw. He doesn't seem to have had field trial training."