The Man, too, stared in astonishment.
“I don’t like it,” said the Woman.
Dicky felt greatly encouraged. At home he was fond of turning somersaults. Now, down went his head and over went his hind-legs. It was not a good somersault (he was too short in the legs for somersaults now) but it was one. The Man gave a shout of laughter, and his face lit up with joy and cunning.
“S’truth, it’s a performing dawg! I ain’t taking ’im back, no fear. He’ll make our fortunes.”
At these words Dicky saw he had made a terrible mistake. If he was a dog, he had better not be a re-markable dog.
“HE COULD NOT FALL ANY FURTHER”
The door was still open, and through it he dashed, taking the steps at a leap. Now he was falling, falling, falling. What a height! Oh, would he never reach the bottom? Stars were flying above him like bees. The awful thing was that he was beginning to fall slowly, while a huge arm with a hand at the end of it was stretching out, longer and longer, after him. He was not even falling slowly now; he was floating. He tried to force himself down through the air, but though there was nothing to keep him up he could not fall any further. Suddenly the arm gripped him. In an agony of terror he yelled: “I’m not a dog.” He heard his own voice, and, to his amazement, he saw his father’s face close to his; it was his father’s arm lifting him from the hearthrug. He felt a hand cool on his forehead. “Dick, you’re feverish. My little Dick.” His father’s voice had never sounded like that before, and he felt himself being carried—deliciously safe—to bed.
“After all,” he said to himself, as he snuggled down, “I’m glad I’m not a dog.”
