All day Saxe Gotha waited. He drank deeply from the barrel of water, but he went without food, although the remains of the young man's breakfast lay on the table. It was not in Saxe Gotha's breed to steal. All day and all night he waited. Now and again, he lifted his great voice in grief. With his face to that north which he had forbidden himself to seek, even though he was but a dog, he might have been youth mourning its perennial discovery that duty and desire do not always go hand in hand. Saxe Gotha might have been all the courage, all the loneliness, all the grief of youth, disillusioned.
The morning of the second day, a man rode up the trail. He was not Saxe Gotha's man. He dismounted, and called, "Hey, Evans!"
Saxe Gotha, a little unsteady on his legs, sat on his haunches and growled.
"Where's your boss, pup?" asked the man. "I didn't know he had a dog."
Saxe Gotha growled.
"Humph!" said the man. "Off stealing ore again, I suppose."
The stranger prowled round the outside of the hut, and then came to the door.
"Get out of the way, dog! I'm going to find out where this rich claim is that he's finding free gold in. He's a thief, anyhow, not to report it to his company."
As he put his foot on the door-step, Saxe Gotha snapped at him. The stranger jumped back.
"You brute hound!" he cried. "What do you mean? If I had a gun, I'd shoot you!"