When Ponto’s turn came, he remembered the comfortable way in which I had been cared for, and profited by what he had seen. But his mistress, while she pitied the poor animal, did not fancy having her spare bedroom turned into a dog-hospital; and so we removed him to an out-house and made him as comfortable there as possible.
One cold winter evening Ponto was absent from his accustomed place in the hall, where he slept on a mat. The wind was high and there was a confusion of sounds outside.
“Hark!” said one.
We all listened.
“I thought I heard a knock at the hall door.”
“Only the wind,” was replied.
“Yes; there it is again.”
We all heard two distinct knocks, given quickly one after the other.
I arose, and going into the hall went to the front door and opened it. As I did so Ponto bounded in past me, gave two or three short, glad barks, and then paid his boisterous respects to the family in the sitting-room. I waited a moment, and then stepped out to see who had lifted the knocker, but found no one. Ponto had done it himself, as we had proof enough afterward; for ever since that time he has used the knocker as regularly as any two-legged member of the family.
I could tell you stories for a whole evening about Ponto, but these two must answer for the present.