Van was dragged across the yard and fastened securely to the kennel, and for an hour he tugged vainly at his chain, and rent the air with heart-breaking howls.
Then he lay down and tried to gnaw the chain apart, but the steel links hurt his teeth, and made his mouth bleed. Then he fell to howling once more.
“Dr. Johns! Dr. Johns!” he seemed to say. “Take me home to my Betsy! Take me ho-o-o-ome! Cruel! O cru-u-e-l!”
There was no answer, save the barking from the other kennels, for Pete had gone about his daily duties, and could not attend to him. It was Saturday, his father was away, and Pete was a manful little boy about helping.
All that miserable September day Van cried bitterly. It had started so happily, and now had come this terrible desertion and loneliness and homesickness. He could not understand, and no one could tell him why his Betsy did not come and rescue him. She had never failed him before.
Nightfall came on, and with it came Pete, with a bit of supper. It was left untouched. Pete sat on the ground and reasoned with Van.
“Now, you little feller, you jest show yer grit. I know by your look you got some. You mustn’t be a baby. You got to show some spunk. Pop don’t let no dawg take on like that. Ef he was here he’d lick you and make you stop. Now you be a good dog, and I’ll take you in the house.”
To the kitchen they went, and there the chain was slipped, and Van could run free. Straight to the door he went, and lay down, with his nose to the crack, where he could smell the outside air, and there he whined pitifully, until Mrs. Trimble felt a tear on her own cheek.
“He does take on awful. Try and comfort him, Honey. Bring him here by the fire, where it’s warmer. These pet dogs do make a heap of trouble when they first come.”
“I hope he gets to like me,” said Pete. “He’s so purty. Come on, Van, and let’s play we’re old friends.”