It was late when Evans came to Castle Manor with his dog in his arms. Rusty was comfortable and he had wagged a grateful tail. The pain had gone out of his eyes and the veterinary had said that in a few days the wound would heal. There were no vital parts affected—and he would give some medicine which would prevent further suffering.
Mrs. Follette was out, and old Mary was in the kitchen, singing. She stopped her song as Evans came through. He asked her to help him and she brought a square, deep basket and made Rusty a bed.
“You-all jes’ put him heah by the fiah, and I’ll look atter him.”
Evans shook his head. “I want him in my room. I’ll take care of him in the night.”
He carried the dog up-stairs with him, knelt beside him, drew hard deep breaths as the little fellow licked his hand.
“What kind of a man am I?” Evans said sharply in the silence. “God, what kind of a man?”
Through the still house came old Mary’s thin and piping song:
“Stay in the fiel’,
Stay in the fiel’, oh, wah-yah—